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T has been said that the
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He reigns supreme while
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untiringly to give him every comfort.
How carefully the tender, flower-like
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be kept healthy, and the hair soft and
silky. Mothers know all this and many
of the wisest use Resinol Soap. They
know it is perfectly pure and will keep
baby wholesome and sweet, — at the
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Resinol Shaving Stick is the best ever
because it leaves his face free from the drv,
burning, after-shaving effects.
Expressing the Arts
Volume II
The Magazine of Magazines
JULY, 1920
iiniiiiiiiiiiiiitiiiiiimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiimiiiiiiiiiituiiiiiii
Important Features in This Issue :
WHO KILLED COCK ROBIN 1 Louis Raymond Reid
The Gory Trail of Melodrama Across the
New York Stage This Season
LITTLE OLD BABYLON Hey wood Broun
The newest books discussed as only
Mr. Broun can discuss them.
THE STORY OF THE THEATER GUILD
Frederick James Smith
The interesting real life romance of a
remarkable band of dramatic pioneers
THE MIRROR Katharine Metcalf Roof
An original one-act play dealing
colorfully with reincarnation.
THE NEW ART OF CAMERA PAINTING
Dorothy Donnell
As exemplified by Nickolas Muray, picture
making is no longer a mere matter of technique.
REFLECTIONS OF A GENTLE CYNIC
Lisa Y saye Tarleau
Another whimsical philosophic essay.
INTERVIEWS WITH HELEN MacKELLAR
AND LENORE ULRIC
%
Up-to-the-Minute Departments devoted to the Stage
and Current Fashions
Number ii
BREWSTER PUBLICATIONS, INC.
SHADOWLAND
DTDT monthly by Brewster Publications, Inc., a New York Corporation with its principal offices at
177 Duffield Street, Brooklyn, N. Y. Eugene V. Brewster, President and Editor-in-Chief; Eleanor V V
Brewster, Treasurer; E. M. Heinemann, Secretary.
Frederick James Smith, Managing Editor.
Subscription $3.50 a year, in advance, including postage in the U. S., Cuba, Mexico and Philippines; in
Canada, $4.00 a year; in foreign countries, $4.50.. Single copies, 35 cents. Postage prepaid. One and
two-cent stamps accepted. Subscribers must notify us at once of any change of address, giving both
old and new address.
Entered at the Brooklyn, N. Y., Post Office as Second-Class matter.
Copyright, 1920, by Brewster Publicati®ns, Inc., in the United States and Great Britain.
177 Duffield Street, Brooklyn, N. Y.
rnniMF
SHADOWLAND
OUR COLOR PLATES:
Reproductions of original paintings by
Julian Rix, N. A., Norman Jacobsen and
Leo Sielke, Jr., together with a color
impression of William S. Hart by
Wynn Holcomb, and
Marguerite Qill
A dancing favorite in musical comedy and
vaudeville
Olga Petrova
The distinguished star of the drama and
the cinema who is now making
a vaudeville tour
Blanche M cQarity
One of the four winners of the 1919 Fame
and Fortune Contest conducted by
the Brewster Publications
Doris Kenyon
A favorite in motion pictures and in footlight
comedy
SW/XDOWLAND
Two Studies of
Lada,
the Dancer
Page Twelve
Si-IA.DOWLA.ND
On these two
pages are four
unusual camera
studies by
Nickolas Muray
Muray is more
than an expert
mechanician of
the camera. He
sees people in
the terms of
pictorial com-
positions and
he has a
keen power to
analyze person-
alities
iWADOVLANO
The
New
Art
of
Camera
Painting
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiiiiHiiiiiimmiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
By Dorothy
Donnell
J UST south-
east of the
Washing-
ton Arch lies
the quaint re-
gion of tangled,
twisting lanes
and old, drow-
s y , gabled
houses which
the artist folk of New York term, lov-
ingly, the Village; and here, among the
self-conscious picturesqueness of tea-
room, puppet theaters and Bohemian table
d’hotes, live many eager and ardent men
and women who are brave enough to be
pioneers in art, to explore for beauty in
new and untried ways. Some of these
dare to write plays that are like life in-
stead of like drama; some paint pictures
according to their own ideas and visions
instead of according to rule ; some make
costumes along lines of grace instead of
fashion.
On a crumbling six-panelled door on
Macdougal Street, beside “Ye Silhouette
Shoppe,” a modest card announces Nicho-
las Muray, Character Portraiture, and up
three flights of uncarpeted stairs in an
attic studio, with no other aids than a
whitewashed wall, a black velvet curtain, a
green painted kitchen chair, this young
Hungarian artist-photographer is making
camera compositions that lift photography
from the level of a mechanical trade to a
place among the fine arts.
( Continued on page 72)
Nickolas Muray studied
art in Budapest and
modelling in Paris. Then
he went to Berlin to
investigate photography.
Aside from all this
Muray went thru a
heroic and picturesque
preparation for his
career
Page Fifteen
Swadowla.no
Photograph by Maurice Goldberg
Page Sixteen
SwADOWLANQ
Both Photographs by Charlotte Fairchild
The Sakliaroffs have been attracting
widespread interest upon their
American appearances. Entirely dis-
tinct from the Russian Ballet, they
have created their own dance reper-
toire. Since coming to this country
from Switzerland, the Sakliaroffs’ ap-
pearances have been in the main con-
nected with the Chicago Opera Com-
pany. On these pages are two unusual
studies of Clotilde Sakharoff, and
just above is a unique portrait of
Alexander Sakharoff
The Newest
Russian Dance
Missionaries
Page Seventeen
SwA.DOWLA.NC>
Photograph by Charlotte Fairchild
FLORENCE REED
Popular Star of tlie Cinema and the Stage
Page Eighteen
ORIENTAL BAZAAR
From a Watercolor Drawing
By Norman Jacobsen
SuADOWLAND
Photograph by Alfred Cheney Johnston
LOUISE GLAUM
\ new Portrait Study of the Popular Film Star
Pape Twettty-Th rrr
Helen
MaeKellar:
Stage Find
of 1920
H KLKN Mac-
KKLLAR is
come out of the
West, of Scotch
Presbyterian parent-
age and similar prece-
dent. In her child-
hood and young girl-
hood the stage was
spoken of with hated
breath and piously
elevated - eyebrows.
Yet she, personally,
always felt the lure
of it. So much for
environment. She is
college-bred, and
spoke of the college
days when she and
the other members
of her class dreamed
dreams of the things
they would do, the
far ways they would
go. the castles they
would rear, when
once they should be
out in the great
world.
“I talk with some
o f the m n o w , oc-
casionally,” said Miss
MaeKellar, “and won-
der that they seem to
have so completely
forgotten those rather
splendid visions.
Wonder they can be
satisfied with the nar-
row lives they have
led. / couldn't be!"
“Then you think
that a career is every-
thing ?”
“I think that to
create is everything—
according to your
separate and indi-
vidual need. All of
Helen MaeKellar came
out of the West, of Scotch
Presbyterian parent-
age and similar precedent.
In her childhood the stage
was spoken of with bated
breath. Yet, she always
felt the lure of it
Photograph by
Alfred Cheney Johnston
Si-IADOWLANU
The Story of Helen MaeKellar
By Gladys Hall
us crave self-expression. The great thing is
to find the medium.”
‘‘Some women consider children, marriage
in the home sufficient,” I suggested, apropos
of the aforementioned college friends.
“That is not my conception of sufficiency,”
smiled Miss MaeKellar, “any more than it is
my conception of motherhood, the purely
physical side. The old-fashioned mother was
a drag rather than a spur. We have gone on.”
“What 'do you think of tradition?”
“So many fetters holding, or trying to hold,
us down.”
“Mostly successful, or otherwise?”
“That depends on the person and his, or
:her, will to do.”
Miss MaeKellar gives the immediate im-
Photograph by Abbe
p r e s s i o n of a
thoughtful per-
son. There is
nothing of the
profession a 1
stage woman in
her man ner or
in her attitude.
She is one who
has reached her present sphere of activity
thoughtfully, consciously, absorbingly. She
will go on in the same way. There is a
wistfulness in her smile, admitting both of
wistfulness and humor; there is a vision in
her far-away gaze that seems to be seeing
far things the while she talks of the im-
mediate present, of the me and you . . .
“Do you know,” she said, “I believe 1 have
much more curiosity about you than you
have about me. I am dying to ask you any
number of questions. When, for instance,
did you begin to write? And why?”
That was an opportunity for reversal!
But my curiosity gained the upper hand,
thru right of way. no doubt, and we reas-
sumed our respective interrogative posi-
tions. Not before, however. Miss Mac-
Kellar had expatiated on the subject of her
enormous interest in the individual. “Every
new person I meet,” she told me, “is a new
(Continued on page 81)
Vliss MaeKellar believes
that tradition is as so
nany fetters holding; or
trying to hold — us down.
‘The result,” says Miss
MaeKellar, “d e p e n d s
upon the person and his.
or her, will to do”
Page Twenty-Five
KICHAKD BEJNJNt'lT
the dreamer misfit in
Ku gene O’Neill'., splendid
drama. "Beyond the Horizon,"
Mr. Bennett has contributed
one of the best histrionic bits
of t lie stage year
l'i!</r Tui'iity-Si.i
SI-lA.DQWL.ANO
SuA.DOWL.AND
mm
In Greenwich
Village
Special Portrait Studies byN'ickolas
Mu ray
\t the right, is Harry Kemp, poet
of the Village as v\ ell as the open
road; below, is Bobby Edwards,
exponent de luxe of the ukulele;
and. lower right. Ilonka Karasz,
a feminine artist of distinction
I'age Twenty-Seven
SuADOWLAND
An
Avalanche
Photograph by Shaw Pub. Co.
Adelle Irving of 44
Boylston Street, Boston,
Mass., wins a place on
the Shadowland Honor
Roll. She has been the
model for a number of
prize winning photo-
graphic studies
T HERE was once a poet
who sang into immor-
tality a paean of praise
for the beauty of the world.
‘‘A thing of beauty is a joy
forever/’ he chanted, and the
world applauded his wisdom.
However, had the poet
gazed upon the photographs
which have come pouring into our offices from every part
of the country, we doubt if he would have been able to
retain this wisdom, for in response to the roll-call of
opportunity sounded by the Fame and Fortune Contest in
Shadowland, Tin: Motion Picturk Magazine and
The Motion Picture Classic, thousands of the most
beautiful young girls in America have sent in their pho-
tographs, — and everywhere there is being shown the keen-
est interest in the outcome of the contest.
An interesting an-
nouncement for the
Fame and Fortune
contestants is to the
following effect :
The judges’ com-
mittee will sit on July
1st and 2nd, between
the hours of ten and
four, at 175 Duffield
Street. Brooklyn. X.
Y., to interview per-
sonally all contestants
who can make it con-
venient to appear at
that time.
Tests will be taken
before the motion pic-
ture camera at Ros-
lyn, L. I., X. Y., on
the following Satur-
day, Sunday an d
Monday of all those
contestants who seem
qualified to be chosen
for the final honor
roll.
This is being done
in order to alleviate
the pressure of the
grand finale of the
contest.
We have endeav-
ored to make this
contest unique in
every way possible.
We have been per-
fectly honest and
non-partial in our
judgment and have
played no favorites.
Last year we p r o -
duced a two-reel fea-
ture and called it “A
Dream of Fair
Women.’' In it there
appeared the twenty-
five honor roll mem-
bers of the 1919 Fame and Fortune Contest, together
with the final four winners. The success of this two-
reel feature, which was released by the Fine Arts Pic-
tures, 130 West 46th Street, Xew York City, was un-
precedented. It seemed as if everybody wanted to see
what the contest winners looked like and what thev could
do on the screen. Emboldened by this success, this year
we intend to produce a five-reel feature drama which will
give ample opportunity for the honor roll members and
winners to prove their merit.
“Love’s Redemption” is the title of the five-reel feature
play that is being produced by us. which will include
many of the contestants of the 1920 Fame and Fortune
Contest. Blanche McGarity, winner of last year’s con-
test, has been chosen to play the leading part of Peggy.
Dorian Romero has been selected as the “heavy.” Ed-
ward Chalmers, Alfred L. Rigali, Mrs. Mayer, Bunty
Manly and Erminie Gagnon have also been assigned
Page Twenty-Eight
SuADOWLAND
of
Beauty
parts. Among the
distinguished men
who will probably
take part in the play
are Edwin Markham,
the poet; Hudson
Maxim, inventor, and
Judge Frederick E.
Crane of the Court
of Appeals of Xew
York State. Most of
the scenes will be
filmed in and around
the Brewster estate at
Roslyn. L. I., and the
taking will be con-
tinued well into Sep-
tember. Each issue
of every one of our
s e v e r a 1 publications
will hereafter contain
interesting news of
the progress of the
play.
Now that the con-
test is drawing to its
close, it seems as if a
conflagration had
struck the country,
for the photographs
come tumbling in
pell-mell, together
with telegrams and
special delivery let-
ters. daily inundating
the offices of the
Brewster Publica-
tions.
The readers of our
magazines seem sud-
denly to have realized
that this contest
means a really sincere
opportunity for them
to take advantage of.
T hey have b e c o m e
convinced that the
long-awaited chance
for the realization of their ambitions is being offered
them and that their probability of winning is as good as
the next fellow’s.
Another fact which has -greatly pleased its is the in-
crease in the number of male entries. At first these were
greatly in the minority, but emboldened, perhaps, by our
insistence that the contest was open to every one, photo-
graphs of men from all parts of the country have begun
to pour in. We welcome this innovation as an evidence
that the contest has become an important factor to our
readers, for every one well knows that, as a rule, there is
difficulty in convincing a man of the sincerity of this sort
of thing and that most men seem* to hail from that much
abused State of Missouri !
We have spared no effort to make this contest a memo-
rable one in the history of moving picture enthusiasts.
We endeavor thru the medium of this contest to bring the
firm industry and the movie '’‘fan” in closer contact.
Photograph by J. H. Reeves
Alma Gwendolyn Greene,
the other Shadowland
Honor Roll winner, is an
Alabama girl, Jasper be-
ing her home. She has
had no previous drama-
tic experience
The judges of the contest
will be Mary Bickford, Mme.
Olga Petrova, Howard Chand-
ler Christy. Thomas Tnce, J.
Stuart IMackton, Maurice
Tourneur, Samuel Lumiere,
Carl Laemmle, Jesse Lasky,
David Belasco, Blaiyche Bates
and Eugene V. Brewster.
I he Siiadowi.and honor roll winners here pictured
are :
Adelle Irving, 44 Boylston Street, Boston, Mass. She
has dark-brown hair and dark-blue eyes. Her com-
plexion is brunette. She has been the model for a
of prize-winning photographic studies.
Alma Gwendolyn Greene, of Jasper, Ala., has
previous dramatic experience. She has blue-
number
Miss
had
no
grey eyes and fair skin; while her hair is dark brown.
Page Twenty-Nine
m wss&am
California Tennis
Gouverneur Morris, tlie novelist and au-
Llior of a dozen or so "best sellers,” and
Maurice Maeterlinck, Blue Bird philoso
pher de luxe, have been visiting the movie
colony in Los Angeles. With M. Maeter-
linck was Mine. Maeterlinck. Herewith
are three glimpses of Mr. Morris and
Mme. Maeterlinck upon the Hollywood
tennis courts, whereon only film stars
usually play
T<u ie Thirty
Photograph by Cbnvb.tff E nrrhiM
IRENE BORDONI
flip piquant Parisian star of “\s You Werp."
Photograph by Ira I). Schwarz
IN THE COLORFUL INDIES
Josephine Victor in the new Laurence Eyre drama, “Martinique
Page Thirty-Two
Suadowland
SwAD OWLA.NO
The New
Florodora
Photograph by Campbell Studio
That pleasant musical memory, “Florodora,”
has been revived at the Century Theater,
New York. Eleanor Painter has scored in
the famous role of Dolores. Above and
below are glimpses of the 1920 sextette
Photograph by White
Page Thirty-Three
(Miotogrrapli l » y MollVlt
MADGE BELLAMY
All last season little Miss Bellamy, wlio is just seventeen anil a Texas girl, played the
"might-have-been” daughter with William Gillette in “Dear Brutus.” and. according to mam
critics, played it belter than Helen Hayes. After living a few years in Denver, she went to
school at St. Mary's Hall, San Antonio. Two years ago, she came to Mew York and went on
the stage in Andreas Dippel's “The Love Mill.” After that she succeeded Patricia Collinae
in “Pollyanna.”
I'ikji Thirty-/’ om
Suds
Short Story Based Upon Mary Pickford’s Newest Photoplay
By Jane Ward
T i J [■; air in the French Hand Laundry was viscid with
steam. warm, wet and scented with yellow soap,
starch, and damp drying garments of assorted sex
that hung limply in the dimness with ghastly suggestive-
ness of a wholesale execution. The windows were filmed
with a grey fog that occasionally condensed and trickled
down in drops, affording wavery glimpses of the outside
world, like objects seen under water.
It was Saturday. To the French Hand Laundry that
meant a day of frenzied
hurrying, of lost tempers,
of continuous telephone
communications from an
anxious London seeking
news of its Sunday shirts.
Madame Jeanne Gallifilet,
the proprietress, bv mid
forenoon was a dis-
traught creature with
wild eyes and disheveled
hair, and still wilder and
more disheveled lan-
guage. She stood by the
counter and tied up packages, lamenting the while.
‘‘A thousand thunders! Where is that son of a snail?
Do they then think that laundry carries itself? Am I to
leave my iron in mid-air to in all the way to Hammer-
smith with a greengrocer's undershirt ? Amanda !
Amanda! The French Lingerie on Grosvenor Square
must have its chemise! The Boiled Shirt on Bleeker
lacks socks to wear ait promenade in Hyde Park to-
morrow! Amanda — Mon Dieu ! Where art thou, worth-
less one ?”
“Is that the way — I
arst you, Horace, is that
the way to talk to a 'igh
horned lidy ?” Under the
counter a head, one
mass of tangled yellow
curls wagged indignantly,
as Amanda Afflick sur-
veyed the shapeless object
on her knees, “ ‘er as
wouldn’t be given the job
of scrubbin’ floors in me
father's castle — ”
SUDS
Fictionized by special permission from the scenario
based upon the stage play, “ ’Op o’ Me Thumb.’’ originally
produced by Charles Frohman. Produced in motion pic-
tures by Mary Pickford for release thru United Artists.
Directed by Jack Dillon. The cast :
Amanda Afflick Mary Pickford
Horace Greensmith Albert Austin
Mme. Jeanne Gallifilet Mme. Rose Dione
Benjamin Pillsbury Jones Harold Goodwin
Page Thirty-Five
Sw/XDOWLAND
‘Amanda! Name of a name of a pig! Amanda —
“Wos you addressing me, Ma’am?” the dandelion head
appeared reluctantly from the dark recesses of the counter,
followed by a small, pointed face, and lastly by a bony
little figure clad in an incredibly faded garment whose
wideness of waist betokened a former, plumper owner.
Madame Gallifilet’s gaze passed these familiar details to
rivet itself upon the purple thing dangling from Amanda’s
fingers.
"Zat shirt!” she reached across the counter and shook
the culprit so earnestly that the object in her hands flew
out of them and slid along the floor, sleeves outstretched
like a batter sliding for a base. “Again, zat shirt!
Do I pay you, I ask, for sitting under ze countin' wiz a
shirt? Name of a name of a name! And half London
stairk nakeed wizout zair laundry!”
“Balmy in the crumpet!" remarked the girl in the red
shirtwaist to her neighbor without lowering her voice
from reasons of false delicacy.
, "Off her onion!” agreed the girl with the pompadour.
Amanda tossed her head haughtily as she deftly balanced
the huge basket upon it.
“When Horace Greensmith, Esquire, comes for his
shirt,” she told them with spirit, "and tykes me away
maybe you wont say them cruel woids ! When I comes
into me estate I’ll give you me cast-off gownds and maybe
you’ll catch a beau among the loiver classes.”
She stepped out of the watery atmosphere of the Hand
Laundry, and on the sidewalk paused to sniff delightedly.
There was no new scent in the fetid air of London smoke
and un-
washed
life, there
was no new
sight in the
dingy
street yet
manda
with the wisdom of Youth, knew that at last it was
Spring. The pale sunlight was warm on her sharp little,
lifted face. "You’ll be coinin’ for your shirt soon,
Horace!” Amanda murmured wistfully, "soon now ”
A decrepit wagon, drawn by what looked like a rough
sketch of a horse that had never been finished, drew up
at the curb and a very long boy got out in sections with
the effect of assembling himself on the sidewalk. He
smiled at Amanda, and a miracle happened. When he
smiled he became positively beautiful. “Wot ho," he
greeted her, "Say. T see a flower today, a yaller one!
Hi Lavender!” This to the horse which showed symp-
toms of sitting down. The ancient beast rolled a plaintive
eye toward the laundry, whence came Madame, bearing
piles of bundles that must be carried from Hammersmith
to the Strand, and sighing noisily, leaned his moth-eaten
head against the nearby lamp-post and wept.
"Poor Lavender!" Amanda soliloquized as she turned
hastily away, "we’re both dubs but just wait! A little
feedin’ and a little grooming an’ we’d both be as stylish
as any. Now when my stern father relents and welcomes
back his orphink child ”
A small urchin, a banana clasped to his chest, cata-
pulted around the corner and into Amanda. She sat down
promptly upon the pavement, the basket and its contents
intact at her side. As she murmured prayers of gratitude
for its safety an indignant Italian, proprietor of the
escaping banana, leaped full into the basket, scattering
shirts, undergarments and collars broadcast. Madame
Gallifilet, witness of the accident, bore down upon
Amanda, for once speechless, and that unfortunate, cast-
ing a wild glance around, swept the bedraggled ruins of
the laundry into the basket, tripped over a shirt-tail and
disappeared down the chute by which the baskets were
sent from the street to the basement.
Madame who had seized one handle of the basket
perforce followed while a pleased and grateful audi-
ence of urchins and passers-by cheered the neatness of
the performance heartily. At the bottom of the chute
Amanda, in stricken silence, watched the stout propri-
etress pick herself up, dust herself off stonily, and deliver
her ultimatum. “Every one of those things shall be wash
theese night, do you understan’ A thousand thunders !
\Yas ever such an unfor-
tunate ! My beautiful
shirts ! My excellent
chemises !"
At closing time the girl
of the red shirtwaist
paused beside
the tub to give
consolation,
mingled with de-
rision. , '“Poor
little ’Op o’ me
Thumb !" said
she, “It’s crool
hard on a real
“Wos you address-
ing me. Ma’am?”
The dandelion head
appeared reluctant-
ly from the dark
recesses of the
counter
Page Thirty-Six
SuADOWLAND
lvdy to 'ave to do such meneeal
woik."
Amanda raised her little pointed
chin at the chorus of snickers.
"When Horace ;comes for his shirt"
she began staunchly. "I'll lav me
jewelled hand in lus an
"You aint never showed us your
jewels !" winked the pompadour, "an'
all we ever seen of your fine Horace
is ’is shirt, an' no great of a shirt
neither — eight an' a sixpence all
told."
"[ dont wear me tiaras and
di'mond rings to me woik," Amanda
explained loftily, "but at me home
I've got great chests full. h ou
should see me when I dress for din-
ner in pink sating with a train I”
The girls laughed scornfully, but
with a certain amount of awe. They
knew that she was lying but such a
sublimity of lying was almost mag-
nificent. They drew closer. "If
vou're such a fine lady what are you
doing here?" sniffed one.
'Ale father, the Juke," Amanda
was ready for her, "wanted me to
grow up without any rank or do es
or carriages so s to be loved for my-
self alone," she deftly soaped a shirt-
waist. pushed back the damp hair
from her cheeks with one peaked
elbow and went on enjoyingly, "twas
on a cruel cold winter night, and me
father 'ad me locked up in me room
at the castle. Suddinklv the windy was flung open and
Horace comes into the room. I Ie knelt at me feet and
asked for me hand — ” here a pair of pajamas was
wrung out without interruption to the tale. “ ‘Beware,
Horace.' I says, but too late. The Juke stands in the
door. AYot ho! Varlet,’ he says, ‘minion, be gone
‘ence. I refuse my consent— leave the ’ouse.’ ‘I’m
going to work in the diamond mines and come back
for er,' my Horace says, ‘for I love er enough to
give me life for ’er — to give the very shirt off me back
for er!' and with that he takes off 'is shirt and ands it
to me with a low bow and goes. And me father turns me
out into the world to he loved for meself alone."
A triumphant flourish of a long spinsterly white wool
stocking completed the tale. "And so," finished Amanda,
"I’m keeping the shirt done up fresh every week in
memory rff my Horace who's a-going to come and lead
me out of this life of bondage.
"Mice in ’er attic," scoffed the girls as they went, then
pityingly, "Poor little 'Op o' me Thumb!"
For four hours of the night Amanda was the Juke's
daughter, then suddenly she became aware of strange
sounds. From the street outside came the tap, tap of a
bobby’s night-stick. Amanda knew very well what the
sound was but — her lively imagination suggested — it
might be a robber or even a murderer. The windows
rattled fretfully under the fingers of the wind, but sup-
pose it were a ghost escaped from Westminster trying
to get in after its clothes? A little grey shadow slipped
across the sodden floor, a mouse, as she knew very well,
but her small, weary face grew pale and she buried her
head in the damp shirt she was washing so tenderly and
burst into a muffled wail. "Oh, Horace! Horace Green-
smith. F squire. To-Be-Called-For, why dont you come
after your shirt ?. Oh, you was so awful handsome,
Horace ! I aint much to look at on the outside, but inside
I'm perfectlv beautiful. Horace. I've got a blonde soul
Photograph by Abbe
with curl v hair and blue “I dont wear me tiaras
es •" ' and di’mond rings to
- g, . . me work,” Amanda ex-
She got out the irons, pre- plained loftily
sently, heaped coal on the fire
and began the endless task of
ironing. The cold, grey light of early morning was
showing thru the windows when she finished the last
piece, folded it carefully and put on her shapeless old
coat and draggled felt hat with its single limp feather.
One shirt she took from the pile and laid away on a
shelf with a ' tag fastened thru the button-hole. "To
be called for." She had just done up that shirt for the
twentieth time. A memory came to her of that one,
ecstatic glimpse of its owner, tall, with dark romantic
curls, red lips that curled over white )teeth when he
smiled — and he had smiled at her ! She had had that
frail, unsubstantial foundation for her piteous dreaming.
She touched the shirt softly with her small, red, tired
fingers.
"You and me know it’s all made up, Horace," she
smiled, "but we wont let the rest know it ! I guess I got
a right to a castle and a juke father and all that !"
By Monday afternoon Amanda was the Juke's daugh-
ter again. She was free for a delightful hour from the
laundry, thanks to a certain silk crepe waist that had to
be delivered to Grosvenor Square. On the way back
she dallied daringly, watching the fenced-in square of
Page Thirty-Seven
Smaoowuand
Amanda's faith was proof
against jibes. There was
Spring in the air, even in
(lie steamy, sudsy air of
the laundry— and Spring’s
magic
green and the glow of daffo-
dils in a bed in the center with
fast heating heart. 1 he stir
of life that sent their roots up-
ward bravely to the light thru
the sour city soil trembled thru
her whole meager body.
Something within her groped for the light-
The rich perfume of a passing fishmonger’s barrow re-
minded her of the penny the crepe waist owner had given
her. She considered thoughtfully, l’eyond an old woman
with a trav of dried lavender flowers set up shrill com-
petition for her trade. Amanda's soul decided on the
lavender, her stomach clamored for the fish. She com-
promised. Fish in hand, and munching enjoyingly, she
paused by the sweet scented tray and sniffed deeply.
Thnm!" gloated Amanda, then sociably. "I got a horse
named Lavender, a fiery charger. Fvery day they bring
him to the castle
The old woman spoke coarsely and with conviction.
The gist of her remarks, expurgated, was that she did
not believe Amanda. Pained, Amanda, wandered back to
the French Hand Laundry, sharing her fish with a dog
along the wav. On the curbing sat hunched up, a deso-
late figure. When he saw Amanda, he smeared a sleeve
hurriedly across his face but she wasn't to be deceived
T>en Pillsbury !" she cried, 'AVotbs the matter' An
where's Lavender'"
‘‘Gone," said Hen heavily, "The
Madame got mad becos the bobby
said he was too old to work an' she
sen f'r the boneyard men. They took
'im away in a wagon." He tried to
speak philosophically. " 'L got a ride,
anvhow with some'un else a-pulling
the cart !’’
"They're goin' to make Lavender
into glue':" Pale horror sat upon
Amanda's small, unbeautiful fea-
tures. One hard little hand dived
down among intimate recesses of her
dingv garments and reappeared
holding a crumpled, unopened
brown envelope. Hen’s cry of pro-
test fell upon heedless air as .Aman-
da disappeared on desperate legs
down the street.
" 'Fr pay!" he breathed, awed,
"I'll be blowed! She's a good un, is
Amanda, a rare un!" So might have
spoken a plumed knight of old about
his ladye fair.
Old Lavender faced imminent dis-
solution philosophically. He had
drawn heavy laundry wagons for
fourteen of his sixteen years, all of
which had been lived in London. He
had never seen a green field, nor felt
the free wind blowing thru his mane,
yet he. too, had had his dreams.
Perhaps now they would come true
He faced his executioner with a lift
of his heavy old head, and nickered
gently, plaintively.
Into the yard sped a small, frowzy
whirlwind, struck the stoutish man
with the leveled revolver amidships
and crumpled him. Amanda's face
was wan. She held the brown en-'
velope into his face as tho for him
to sniff, jerking an elbow backward
toward the patient old beast. "I 11
buy im. I yke me pay — it s all I got
but we aint neither o' us artv eaters, me an' Lavender'
An then I'll be coming into me fortune soon-—'
A half hour later Lady Agatha Burks, the widow of
a Colonial Governor-General .whose form of self-ex-
pression was flannel and soup bones for the pool, diiving
thru the purlieus of Featherbed Land, was amazed to see
a very small girl apparently pulling a very large, very
reluctant horse up the steep outside staircase of a tene-
ment house to the vociferous cheers of several chimne\
sweeps, and the disapproval of the other tenants. Lady
Agatha, rapping with a large, shapely gloved hand on
the. window of her carriage descended.
In ten minutes she had the tale of Amanda, Daughter
of a Juke, and her fiery charger, high) Lavender, who
would "look fierier when he ad a little feedin . Odd’y
enough she found nothing to smile at in this scrawny
slum child's romancing.
■Tint — till yon — er — come into your estate," she asked
respectfully, of Amanda, “you must have a place to keep
vour—er— charger. Xow suppose you trust him to me.
I live in the country outside of London where there are
green pastures, and other horses to keep him company,
and you could come and see him sometimes-—"
•y'[ e and Horace!" Amanda supplemented breath-
lesslv, "Ow! Wouldn't that be 'Favenly ' ‘a< nice a« rid-
ing the steam calliope at Fmstead almost.
So then Lady Agatha heard about Horace too. and the
(Continued on poge 651
Pane Thirty-Eight
SuADQWLAND
Two
Ben Ali
Haggin
Tableaux
Above, Mr. Haggin’s
scena, “The Witch-
ing Hour,” in the
Ziegfeld Midnight
Frolic and, below,
Mr. Haggin’s “The
Feast,” a tableau in
the 9 o’Clock Revue
Exclusive photograph by
Alfred Cheney Johnston
Page Thirty-Nine
SWADOWLANO
The Story
of the
Theater
Guild
By Frederick
James Smith
M any of the
professional
critics of the
theater have taken it
upon themselves to
condemn the Theater
Guild because, in the
year of its existence,
not a single native
dramatist of impor-
tance has been re-
vealed — and no real
effort to develop a
new personality has
appeared upon the
surface.
Which may or may
not be beside the
point. At least, the
Theater Guild has
forged its ways along
a precarious path to a
certain — and distinct
—niche in the Ameri-
can theater. Abso-
lutely without finan-
cial backing and ex-
isting wholly upon a
cooperative basis, the
guild has fought its
fight successfully for
nearly two seasons.
Literally the guild is a successor to the Washington
Square Players. When that once exceedingly promising
organization expired, three interested Washingtonians got
together and, actuated by a belief that the old standard
could still be carried forward, created the guild.
The creation process was not an easy one. “The idea
first developed with Lawrence Langner, Phillip Moeller
and I,” says Helen Westley, in relating the guild’s birth.
“Rollo Peters joined us and our meetings drew thirty or
forty people interested in the drama. From these meet-
ings was sifted a board of directors comprising Helen
Freeman, Mr. Langner, Mr. Moeller, Lee Simonson,
Maurice Wertheim and myself. Mr. Peters became the
first executive director.” It is interesting to note that
the same board of directors still maps out the destinies
of the guild.
So the guild, created upon a cooperative basis, came
into being. The French Players had just left the Garrick
Theater and the guild managed to secure that house. It
has been its home ever since.
Where the Washington Square Players had devoted
their time to one-act plays, with an exception or two, the
guild resolved to present full-length dramas. Now ’it is
Photograph by Ira D. Schwarz
Scene from the Theater
Guild’s production of St.
John Erine’s “Jane
Clegg” with Margaret
Wycherly and Dudley
Digges
far more difficult to ade-
quately do a play running an
entire evening than a program
of short playlets, but the
guild organizers felt that they
must rise or fall thru exerting
their complete scope.
On April 4, 1919, the guild presented “Bonds of Inter-
est,” adapted from the Spanish of Jacinto Benavente.
In the treasury was exactly $500. No particular interest
was manifested by the general public in the production
and a few weeks later St. John Ervine’s “John Ferguson”
was offered. On the night that “John Ferguson” opened
— May 12, 1919 — exactly $19.45 remained in the treasury
and a few weeks later St. John Ervine’s “John Ferguson”
To Mr. Langner, of the board of directors, belongs the
credit for securing “John Ferguson.” This drama, it is
true, had been presented by the Dublin National Theater
and also in England, but it was only known in this
country in published form. Yet the play had been avail-
able for five years.
Mr. Langner read it and cabled to Ervine, who,
wounded and ill after his service in Flanders, was con-
Page Forty-One
SuADOWLAND
response of the season from the public. Then, on February 23,
the guild offered Ervine’ s “Jane Clegg.”
With “Jane Clegg” the guild launched into a second period
of high prosperity. The second Ervine play doubled the
record of its predecessor, “John Ferguson,” even in its first
weeks and, at this writing, is still running at the Garrick. Its
popularity temporarily side-tracked the guild’s five-plays-a-
year policy, but the organization has lived up to its promises by
offering Strindberg’s “Dance of Death” for a series of special
matinees.
It is manifestly true that the guild has not contributed to
the advance of the struggling American playwright. Its suc-
cess has been won with two plays of an Irishman already
revealed to the intellectual world by the Dublin Theater.
Plainly, the full mission of the guild has not been sounded.
Next yeax% however, at least one native di'ama is promised.
Moreover, the guild has proven that thoughtful workers in the
di'ama, sharing alike, can maintain a theater in so-called com-
mercial New York. Having proven this, the coming season
will be of unusual interest to the students of the theater.
The guild, it is interesting to note, is organized along com-
mercial theater lines, save that the cooperative idea runs thru
the entire personnel. The board of directors governs the or-
ganization. Since Mr. Peters, the first executive director, left
the organization late last year to go to Europe, the post has
been vacant, altho Lee Simonson, the scenic dii-ector, is
actually acting in this capacity. A great portion of the theater
( Continued on page 63)
Photograph by Frances Bruguere
Helen Westley, one of valescing in
the founders and chief t? i j
factors in the Theater °
Guild Who on earth
is Langner?”
asked Ervine,
but he cabled pi’oduction permission,
half believing Langner to be connected
with some amateur or semi-professional
dramatic organization and that “John
Ferguson” would be done once or per-
haps twice.
The success of “John Ferguson” is
a matter of dramatic history. It ran
thru the summer and moved uptown
to another theater. Royalties began to
pour in upon the surprised Ervine.
Fate played into the hands of the
guild. When the nation-wide actors’
strike closed every metropolitan thea-
ter, the guild, operating on the co-
operative plan, remained open with
“John Ferguson.”
Result — the guild started its second
season with considerably more than
$19.45 in its treasury. The directors
felt that the full function of the or-
ganization meant the creation of a
repertoire and that at least five produc-
tions should be made a year. The guild
launched the season on October 13,
1919, with Masefield’s “The Faithful,”
followed with “The Rise of Silas
Lapham,” adapted by Lillian Sabine
from William Dean Howell’s novel.
The third pro-
duction was
Tolstoi’s “The Helen Freeman and
P n w p r n f Augustin Duncan in
-p. . ,, the Guild’s production
Darkness, of Ervine ? s « John
which attracted Ferguson”
the first real Photograph by White
Page Forty-Two
'
SjADOWLAND
Little Old Babylon
By Heywood Broun
T HERE is so little team work among the authors of
o.ur day that one can hardly blame the poor reader
who finds nothing but bewilderment in all his re-
search. For instance, we happened to read Vicente
Blasco Ibanez’s “Woman Triumphant” on Tuesday and
Wednesday, while on Thursday and Friday we were en-
gaged with a book of sermons by Dr. John Roach Strat-
on called “The Menace of Immorality in Church and
State.” The novel was all about an artist who loved the
beauty of the human body and wanted to make a picture
of his wife, but when the painting was finished she took
a knife and cut it into little pieces. The artist was more
than annoyed. This act of vandalism practically ruined
his life. Thereafter, instead of painting the nudes which
he adored, he did pictures of copper kettles and broiled
shad. His heart was not in such things. He died fa-
mous, but disappointed. The story moved us to such a
point that for a day we went about cursing the tyranny
of clothes. Why, we thought, has the world allowed this
ugly woolen barrier to come between us and Greek ideals.
But then we read Dr. Straton and found that New York
City will soon be hit
by a tidal wave or
an earthquake if
women continue the
present styles.
“A fossilized oc-
togenarian,” write?
the good doctor, “or
a self-complacent
mollycoddle, with
ice-water in his
veins, may be able
to look at the sights
which any man can
see in modern so-
ciety today, and in
the dance hold in
his arms a throb-
bing, beautiful
young woman, with
almost half her body
exposed, and the
other half clothed in
good intentions —
such a man, I say,
under these circum-
stances may main-
tain a philosophic
calm, but any young
fellow with red
blood in his veins
and the elemental
forces of nature op-
erating in him, can-
not so easily do so.”
It will be ob-
served that there is.
a common sensuous
quality in the style
of the clergyman
and the Spanish
novelist. Dr. Strat-
on, however, also
possesses a tremolo
which is not in the repertoire of Ibanez. Consider the
story of the famous reform worker and the little child:
“I once heard one of the most famous reform workers
of this city explain why she gave up low-cut gowns. She
explained that she was ready to start for the theater one
night in such a dress, when her little boy of five said to
her, ‘But, mother, you are not going that way? You are
not dressed.’ And then, with trembling voice, she told us
how all the evening thru, as she sat in the playhouse, she
kept hearing that sweet, childish voice saying, ‘Not
dressed! Not dressed! Not dressed!’ until at last, with
the blush of shame mounting to her cheeks, and with the
realization that a Christian mother should dress differ-
ently from the idle and Godless women of the world, she
drew her cloak about her and went home, dressed — or
rather undressed — for the last time in such a costume !”
Personally, we are much opposed to the spanking of
children under any circumstances whatsoever, but it
seems to us that an exception might well have been made
in this case. The child in our house may shout and ram-
page with impunity, but he will go too far the instant he
begins to make per-
sonal remarks about
the style of his
father’s clothes on
any occasion.
And yet we have
a soft spot in our
heart for Dr. John
Roach Straton. He
has painted a more
stirring and exciting
world than any nov-
elist of the month.
Best of all, he finds
glamor and romance
right in New York.
He has found crim-
son and purple in
the routine of the
big town. O. Henry
saw us as Bagdad-
on-the- Subway, but
Dr. Straton has re-
freshed the spirits
of all weary New
Yorkers by telling
us that we live in
the modern Baby-
lon. There is a
tonic quality in such
teaching for the
man from the
Bronx or Flatbush
who thought of the
city as dreary and
dull. Indeed, If Dr. r
Straton is right, the
novelists and the
moving picture men
have been getting
our money under
false pretenses.
( Continued on page
64 )
Photograph by Charlotte Fairchild
MLLE. SPINELLY
“Spi,” the Paris and London favorite, recently invaded America via
the Ziegfeld Roof
Page Forty-Three
Suadqwla.no
Reflections of a Gentle Cynic
By Lisa Ysaye Tarleau
NOTHING
G ENTLE reader, I am presenting to you the shadow
of a lady who has just left this dull and dreary
world of ours, and I can assure you that even as
a shadow the lady is charming. It is, therefore, not a
fearful appearance, you see, but a well-dressed spirit,
ruffled and frilled and with a hint of an exotic perfume
which is a little bit risque without being really question-
able. And just like her perfume the lady was in life,
not questionable, but risque ; not actually burning down
the house of her good repute in one vast emotional con-
flagration, but playing prettily with forbidden fires and
warming her slim and pale hands over hidden flames that
had a sulphurous tinge. You have heard of the grandes
amoureuses who in shameless splendor played the drama
(or was it the comedy?) of their untamed desires and
their wild passions before the breathless audience of a
shocked and delighted world. Well, our lady did not
belong to this genre of femininity. She was, if I mazy say
so, a petite amoureuse ; not a tigress of love, but a sleek
little white cat, stealing the sweet milk of kisses and
caresses and giving in exchange a purr and. perhaps, even
a scratch. But now all
this is over. Her soul
was weighed and found
wanting, and the time
of penance has come.
We meet the lady in
the waiting-room of
the Inferno, into which
Satan himself had
ushered her. To her
surprise, the Prince of
Sin and Darkness did
not look at all as she
had pictured him,
neither as devilish and
rakish, nor as amused
and cynical and clever
as we mortals are apt
to believe. For, in
fact, he is rather bored
and weary and utterly
disillusioned. Once he
was the swiftest and
most splendid of all
angels, and the divine
adventures of the far-
thest stars were calling
to him ; and now he is
the warden of a ghost-
ly penitentiary. Can he
help being melancholy ?
The lady, or rather
the shadow of the lady,
paces up and down the
waiting-room and so-
liloquizes. The things
she says may sound
silly to you, gentle
reader; you may find
them mostly second-
hand phrases; cant;
half-read and even less
understood ape reus,
but the lady was in the habit of saying just such things
during her stay in Time, and they are the only mental
equipment she took with her to Eternity. Listen, then,
to the charming sinner and the things she has to tell.
‘‘Well, now ... it has come; my penance shall begin.
But I am willing to be punished, I will not flinch nor
draw back ... I am willing to lie on burning plough-
shares and to shiver in the eternal ice of the lost souls.
I am willing to suffer as Paolo and Francesca have suf-
fered, as Fra Dolcin and his blonde love. Even the most
terrible tortures I will endure smilingly. I have lived my
life and I have loved it, and now I will pay the price.
The pride of my heart will never be broken and the joy
of my past delights will never leave me . . .
“I think there is a certain amount of pleasure even in
pain. Tortures and caresses are, somehow, related to
each other, and, surely, I shall find even in the poisoned
flower of my sufferings a drop of the honey sweetness of
bygone days. I only wish they would begin, they would
come ... I am just in the mood . . .
“How miserably dull and dreary this room here is; not
only tasteless, but colorless. Even the antechamber to
the Inferno ought to
have a certain charac-
ter; it can be fearful,
but it should not be
boring. This wall-
paper alone is enough
to depress even the
most courageous spirit.
I think my maid had
such a wall-paper in
her room, but her
esthetic needs and
mine are, of course,
somewhat different.
“Boredom almost
oozes thru these walls ;
I think I can touch
here ennui with my
hands as if it were a
loathsome and sticky
liquid. What a delight
the tortures will be
compared with this in-
tolerable waiting ! One
suffers, but at least
something happens,
and anything that hap-
pens is endurable . . .
“I always loved
things to happen ; all
my life I demanded the
breathless rush of
events ; my heart was
ever longing, searching,
asking, tasting the cups
of pleasure and break-
ing the bread of de-
light. And now an-
other cup will be filled
for me, the cup of
pain, and I am almost
( Continued on page
63 )
Page Forty-Four
SUADOWLANB
Who Killed Cock Robin?
The Season’s Gory Trail of Playwriting
By Louis Raymond Reid
W
HO killed Cock Robin was a pressing theatrical
question all season. Indeed, this year it was all-
absorbing. The circumstances attending the
assassination of this young figure — Broadway insists
characteristically, upon the slangy term ‘‘bird” — have
always fascinated ,a certain class of playwrights. They
have written its details time and again in lurid colors and
splashy headlines, for that Hearst of the theater, A. H.
Woods, and the good public has responded with good
nature and generosity.
The old murder mystery has a remarkable vitality.
Perhaps it is just as well. Had Mr. Robin’s physique
not been so vulnerable to the slings and arrows of out-
rageous fortune, the stage might easily have been domi-
nated by bedroom farces. But murder was done just in
time to save the Grand Rapids school of drama from
gaining sway in the American theater. And for that we
must be thankful. Too much lingerie and lies against a
background of walnut or mahogany would have induced
a nation-wide ennui
from which the
theater could never
have recovered.
A healthy bal-
ance has been
maintained and we
can thank o u r
stars, as well as
the managers and
the playwrights
who have refused
to compromise
their ideals. Bee-
thoven and Irving
Berlin, the Atlantic
Monthly and Jim
Jam Jems, James
Branch Cabell and
Harold Bell
Wright, W. S.
Maugham and
Owen Davis — we
have them all.
How can America
go to the dogs
while its pendulum
of taste swings in
each direction ?
This season saw
the bedroom farce
hold ing its own
with such repre-
sentations as “The
Girl in the Limou-
sine,” “Nightie
Night,” “No More
Blondes” and
“Scandal,” which
the statisticians
would place under
the head of com-
edy drama. To
MARGOT KELLY
The Titian-Haired Actress Appearing in the revival of “Florodora”
me, however, “Scandal” must and shall remain farce, for
it could not have been conceived, much less written,
without the tongue placed securely against the cheek.
On the other side of the ledger we find a veritable trail
of gore. Naturally you observe that red ink has been
used. In fact, it has oozed and trickled and poured from
the playwrights’ pens. Everybody’s doing it. Even
Channing Pollock, who has usually been identified with
comedies and revues, has shaken the prosecutor’s long
arm of coincidence in the direction of the gun play. His
melodrama, “The Sign on the Door,” all season at the
Republic Theater, goes a long way toward vindicating the
impulse which sent C. Robin to his death. Incidentally,
it should place Mr. Pollock far up on the heights of pros-
perity, even tho the play lacks one of those amusing
characters, such as Jimmy Gilley or Aggie Lynch, that
made George Broadhurst and Bayard Veiller such popu-
lar writers for the stage.
It is not difficult to recognize the reasons why the sub-
ject, of the murder
of Cock Robin
holds such thrall-
dom over play-
wrights. It is .a
subject of tremen-
dous fascination.
It pulsates with
primitive emotions.
It contains the air
of mystery which
envelops all good
detective stories.
It concerns a va-
riety of tempera-
ments. It teems
with action. And
whether Sherlock
Holmes or Father
Brown or Nick
Carter are asso-
ciated with the
case matters little.
After all, Conan
Doyle and Owen
Davis are brothers
under the skin.
And when they
have apprehended
the assassin and
learnt that the mo-
tives for the crime
would never con-
vict him with the
average jury, there
is little for the
playgoer to do but
agree and go home
somewhat tired —
but excited.
Practically all
(Continued on page
76 )
Page Forty-Five
SuADOWLAND
Page Forty-Six
Three Camera
Lyrics
Photographic Studies made by Robert Conklin .
of Chicago tor SHADOWLAND
SuA.DOWLA.NQ
Lenore
two hitherto undepleted eyes in an en-
deavor to decipher the inscriptions, for
which diverse art I have a passion, but
failed. Just as I got past the “To
L ,” “L” herself came swiftly in.
She is like that — swift. Subtle, too,
and sharp. One gets an impressionistic
picture of a young thing with a thicket
of dark hair, a scarlet mouth, dark
eyes, a slender, vital sort of body, an
eager manner. A warm handshake, a
sort of impelling cordiality. I thought,
at once, of Tiger Rose. It occurred to
me then that she was sharply more like
Tiger Rose than like the Swallow in
“The Son-Daughter.” That was a first
impression ; impressions, with Lenore,
follow one another in rapid, always
colorful sequence.
After talking a while, certain charac-
teristics of the little Chinese maiden to
whom duty and love of country came
first showed themselves. A certain
wistfulness ... a certain shy appeal
Photographs by Ira L. Hill
C ~NORE ULRIC is emi-
nently satisfactory to
one’s dramatic in-
stinct. She was to mine, at
least, about which alone I
may speak advisedly.
I am speaking of her
apart from the footlights
and the smothered Belas-
coian orchestration. Even her name cannot be im-
proved upon for a title. The musicality of it, the sug-
gestion of it, the color, the melancholy, the plaint of it,
would have given delight to Poe, would have been
seized upon by Wilde. Lenore . . .
I awaited her, one evening, in her dressing-room at
the theater. Usually I am bored in a dressing-room.
There is, almost always, no reason not to be. Unless
one can account divers cold-cream jars, huge eye-pen-
cils and dilapidated rabbits’ feet as reasons.
On this occasion I was not bored, because a per-
sonality spoke in and about the place. A vivid being
had been here and left an impress. Lenore was every-
Avhere suggested . . .
It contained at least two, (I want to say a dozen or
more, but veracity tweaks my ear), dolls in painstakingly
correct Chinese costumes. They hung one each side
of the dressing-table. There was a soft and inviting
couch, odd bits of antique and colored cretonne, and
a good half-dozen of Mr. Belasco’s pictures, heavily
framed. They were autographed, too, and I ruined
One gets an impressionis-
tic picture of Lenore
Ulric: A young thing
with a thicket of dark
hair, a scarlet mouth,
dark eyes, a slender, vital
sort of body, an eager
manner. You think at
once of “Tiger Rose”
Page Forty-Eight
SuadowlanO
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiumiiii
By
Gladys Hall
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimmiiiimiiiiiiiimimimniiiiiiiiii
of the child ... a
reverence for great
persons ... a naive
distrust of self. Char-
acteristics seldom, if
ever, a part of the
world weary, the
worldly wise . . .
To wit: I asked
her of Mr. Belasco,
his methods of pro-
duction, his personal-
ity, et al. She looked
quite somber and se-
rious, quite rapt and
reverential. She
clasped her hands.
“I call him ‘God,’ ”
she said.
I exclaimed.
She gave a little
laugh. “He exclaims
like that, too,” she said,
“but he seems like that
to me. Aside from his
genius, he is so patient,
so good, so kind. We
are always so glad
when we know he is in
the theater. He is an
inspiration. His whole
attitude is, always, ‘I
know that you can do
it.’ And that is why
we generally do.”
I asked her whether
she believed in the
character she was
playing in “The Son-
Daughter.” Whether
she thought a woman
would, or could, sac-
rifice her personal
love of a man for the
more abstract, the colder love of country, or duty.
She said that she did think so. At first she had not.
But she has been going deeper and deeper into the char-
acter of the Chinese Swallow, research being another and
a very marked attribute of Mr. Belasco’s, and the deeper
she goes, the more convinced she becomes of the logical
process of Lien-Wha’s mental processes.
“You see,” she said, “she was brought up that way.
Day by day and hour by hour it was dinned into her — -
love of country, obedience to her father, obedience to her
father, love of country, over and over and over again.
We are plastic, after all, and it all had its effect.”
“But women in general,” I asked, “you and I ... all
of us . .
“I believe,” she said, “that we are all much better
people, inside of us, than we are given credit for being,
or give ourselves credit for being. We do not know,
any one of us, what we will do when the great call comes,
when the hour is struck. T do believe, tho, that most of
us would play up, most of us would rally to the sacrifice
as finely and as wholly as the little Chinese Swallow did.
We have unsuspected depths, you and I . . .”
Photograph by Ira L. Hill
“I believe,” says Miss
Ulric, “that we are all
much better people, in-
side of us, than we are
given credit for being, or
give ourselves credit for
being. We do not know,
any one of us, what we
will do when the great
call comes”
I departed with a sort of
pleasurable sensation. It was
not so much what she had
said, because most of it had
been details about Mr. Be-
lasco’s research work in order
to produce “The Son-Daugh-
ter” and the rest had been
about Mr. Belasco himself;
but the pleasurable sensation
persisted. I felt as tho I had been admitted for that
brief period of time, into the theater. All the lure of it,
all the mystery, all the departure, thrilling and dark, from
the more humdrum every-day. I felt that my sense of
the dramatic had been satisfied by a personality.
I went back to my first impression ... of swiftness
and vividness ... of poppies . . . and tiger lilies . . .
of drama and orchestration ... all young, fierce, ex-
traordinary things . . . and the Poe-like musicality of
the name, Lenore ... of having come in direct contact
with a strongly vibrant personality; a personality it would
not be easy to forget . . .
Page Forty-Nine
SWADOWLAND
. I’ ■ :i ■ ;
!'i !«!«;!
Impressions
of Broadway
Page Fifty
T
•Upper left, William Gil-
lette; upper right, E. H.
Sotliern; center, Messag-
uer’s idea of Enrico
Caruso; lower left, Seg-
urola of the “Met” ; lower
right, Philip Moeller, the
playwright
By
Messaguer
KM?
f
My Lady
Fashion
nHmimiiimmiiimiiniiiiiniiiimmmiiiiitHiiittttmr
By The Rambler
jiiniHinmnHiiimiummiimiiHiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiii
A GAIN the miracle of summer.
Long, sunny days, green
trees, vine-hung porches, the
scent of flowers, the lure of the
mountains, the seashore, of quiet
places. The casting aside of our
winter duvetyns and velours, our
spring tweeds and sportspuns. The
choosing of cool voiles, crisp linens,
dainty swisses and organdies,
sturdy gabardines and surf satins.
One realizes that more than ever
personal taste governs fashions to-
day and in the hands of the smartly
dressed woman lies the fate of
every style launched.
The Summer Mode
Just before the spring openings
it was believed that this season we
would see a continuation of pan-
niered and very much wired dresses.
The robe de style of the eighteenth
century has been the inspiration
for many of the quaint, picturesque,
voluminous hoop-skirted creations
seen on the stage during the past
season. Altogether delightful they
were, too, and so charming were the
modernized models displayed in the
shops, it was feared that the style
would be adopted by all and pushed
to exaggeration, which would have
been sad indeed !
The general note of the openings
is rather of straight lines with mod-
erate fulness and but slight drap-
eries. For daytime wear, clothes
continue to be on fairly straight
lines, with some accentuation at the
hips. Afternoon and evening
dresses continue to exhibit the
widest variety of line and fabric.
An advance showing of Lucile
models shows that the garments
which will be sponsored by Lady
Duff Gordon fall naturally into
two types : long, draped effects for
Black and white
foulard bound
with white
satin, white or-
gandie chemi-
sette. Black
straw hat with
white flowers.
Designed by
Mme. Frances
Photograph by
Geisler & Andrews
the tall woman,
and short, puffed
or fulled effects
for the small one.
In this way the
distinctive charm
of each type is
kept and accen-
tuated. An origi-
nal interpretation
of the pannier
SwADOWUANO
Page Fifty-One
places it well below the curve of the
hip, so that the slender lines of the
modern supple waist are not con-
cealed by masses of material. All
thru this collection the accentuation
of the hip persists in many original
forms, and there are some evening
frocks with hoop-skirts. With these
frocks are shown the contrasting
draped effects for the tall, slender
woman. For example, an afternoon
gown of dark-blue charmeuse, long,
cleverly swathed around the body
has trimmings of Chinese tassels
of mauve and green. A long, draped
evening gown which might have
been inspired by the Greek is of
dull black crepe de chine.
The summery afternoon frocks
are also of two types. For young
girls there is the slightly pannier
effect of white organdie, voile or
swiss. For the tall woman there
are delightful effects in chiffon
striped with lace inserts and with
square motifs of lace and embroi-
dery. These gowns are usually
high in the back and cut square or
oval in front, as Lucile thinks that the
pannier silhouette demands a neck-
line which mounts in the back and
descends in a graceful line in front.
The Revival of Old-Fashioned
Silks
Charming daytime frocks are
being fashioned from foulard and
taffeta. Old-fashioned pin-checks,
dots and narrow stripes have been
revived for them, and the long,
tight sleeves, buttoned and frilled,
are reminiscent of the art of Gains-
borough. In fact, a tendency to use
lingerie frills at the neck and sleeves
is marked at nearly all the houses —
a welcome revival. One great nov-
elty is the suit of foulard, worn
with a lingerie blouse, which, most
often, is of organdie. These suits
are extremely well liked, for they
are both novel and practical. An
example is a black foulard printed
with a small pattern in white lines
of dots. The short, loose coat is
lined with white organdie, which is
turned up around the bottom of the
jacket to form an outside hem, and
buttonholed in white. The sleeves
on all daytime models, even one-
piece frocks, are at least three-
quarter length if not quite long.
Quaint and practical are the day-
time frocks of old-fashioned pin-
check taffeta, also of a very
grandmothery
silk in brown
and grey, with
moderately full
skirts, hips ac-
centuated with
pockets, collars
of organdie or
Valenciennes.
French organdie
with elaborate
hand stitching.
Posed by Hope
Hampton for
Bonwit Teller
& Co.
Photograph by Apeda
SuADOWLAND
Page Fifty-T wo
SwADOWLAND
The Latest Blouses
Each season, before the openings,
women state with assurance that with
the present mode of one-piece frocks
or of a tailleur smartly completed by
a gilet, there is no need of a blouse.
Nevertheless, just as soon as the pa-
rade of mannequins begins at any of
the houses, we succumb immediately
tc the blouse.
This season, blouses have come
into new prominence. Materials may
be of different varieties, but geor-
gette crepe is much used. Some of
the blouses are long-waisted, draped
about the hips ; others have the ap-
pearance of Louis XV waistcoats.
The waistcoat blouse is made in such
a fashion that the front of it falls
outside the skirt, altho the back is
tucked away beneath the belt.
Mother-of-pearl buttons are used to
fasten it, and pockets are suggested
by very fine embroidery, which also
runs up the front and around the
collar.
White organdie is admirable for
the waistcoat type, on which embroi-
dery may be done in white silk. An-
other favored material is linen lawn,
in natural or rose-color. No fabric,
however, is really daintier or more
appropriate for the season than a
finely made linen lawn in pale colors,
pink, blue and white. Blouses of
lawn are plaited, sometimes all over
the fronts, the shoulders and the
high collar, and cravats of black taf-
feta finish them. This season many
blouses have high or standing collars,
and often there are cravats as a fin-
ishing touch to these collars.
In striking contrast to these tai-
lored blouses are those of georgette
crepe, already mentioned. They are
in colors, either very bright or of a
dark shade, such as maroon, brown
or deep violet. They are Oriental
in effect, with the long waist and
finished with a band about four
inches wide about the hips. On this
band is rich embroidery of many
colors. These blouses have wee
sleeves, gay with rows of fluting
spaced one-half an inch from each
other and combined with embroidery.
New Lingerie Blouses
The charm of frills, fichu and
jabots and sheer materials of the
finest qualities
are featured in
the new blouse.
There are those
of cobwebby ba-
tiste and linen,
with their dainti-
ness and charm
increased by one
of the numerous
new types of col-
(C ontinued on-
page 73)
Embroidered
cotton voile
frock trimmed
with ruchings of
white organdie
and pipings of
grosgrain rib-
bon. Mushroom
leghorn hat
trimmed with
pleated maline
in the smart
rust shades.
Franklin Simon
Page Fifty-three
SuADOWLAND
'
On the
British
Stage
Special studies made
for Shadowland
by Hoppe of
London
Pepita Bobadilla, at
the upper left, is a
vivacious South Amer-
ican actress playing in
“Daddies” in London.
She was a favorite in
Brussels and Paris be-
fore her British debut
Just above is Lenora
Hughes, who seems to
have won London as
Maurice’s new dancing
partner. They call her a
second Mrs. Vernon
Castle
At the left is Malvina
Longfellow, an American
actress now devoting her
time to the British
cinema
Page Fifty-Four
SUA.DOWL.ANO
The Mirror
An Original One-Act Play
Characters: Saida Blair, Roland Haveneth, Evelyn March.
Time: The present.
Scene: Saida’s apartment at the top of the house. A
room with walls of neutral color containing a few rare
Oriental objects. A Buddha in a niche in the back
wall. On either side of it stand tall candlesticks,
unlighted. At the right a curtained door leads into
the hall. At the left a window with the curtains un-
drawn reveals a snowy twilight without. Another
door, (curtained), leads into Saida’s bedroom. Against
the wall is a dark chest of drawers, on top of which
stands an old Japanese mirror. At the center left, a
table containing a lamp and a chair. In the right wall
a mantel and open fireplace with lighted fire ; there is
a Chinese seat without a back beside the hearth, and a
few good Japanese prints on the wall.
( Saida and Evelyn enter, zvearing their outside zuraps.
Saida is dark and rather Oriental-looking , Evelyn fair
and of a conventional type.)
Evelyn — So you aren’t going to the Sanford’s dance
tonight.
Saida — What’s the fun in dancing with stupid, half-
alive modern men?
Evelyn ( amused ) — What would you have — dervishes,
gitanas ?
Saida ( stretching out her hands) — Perhaps. I want to
dance something wild and swift with cymbals.
Evelyn — Like those crazy dances you used to make
up when you were a child, I suppose.
Saida — I do them still when I’m alone.
Evelyn ( staring ) — Alone! What an idea. What is
the matter with you today, Saida? You dont seem like
yourself.
Saida — Which self ? How are you to know what is
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimmiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimmiiimmiimmiiiiiiiiiimiii
By Katharine
Metcalf Roof
IIIIIIIII1IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIMIIIIIIIIIIMIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII1I1IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
Produced at the Toy Theatre,
Boston, Mass., December, 1912
“A Mirror is the Soul of a Woman”
Old Chinese Proverb
Illustrated by
Oscar Frederick Howard
your real self, when you feel so different, different times
and with different people ? Do you remember that fancy 1
had when I was a child that I didn’t belong to my parents ?
Evelyn ( prosaically ) — Lots of children get that idea —
from reading fairy stories, I suppose.
Saida — Sometimes I have it still. Sometimes when
father and I are sitting together at dinner it comes to me
suddenly that we are just talking on the surface of things
and that we are really — strangers.
Evelyn— What an idea ! But you never were like
other children. You always wanted to play such queer
games, and you were such a tyrant ! I was afraid not to
do what you told me. Do you remember how you used
to play you were a princess, and how you made me call
you Saida?
Saida (in a far-away voice) — Saida
Evelyn ( staring ) — You had such an odd look when
you said that. I believe it was what Philip Sanford calls
your Egyptian look.
Saida ( dreamily ) — Egypt . . . Egypt. I have never
seen it, but sometimes I feel as if I had been there — as
if I were remembering it. Do you ever feel like that?
Of course you dont, dear, funny, practical old Evelyn !
( Evelyn moves toward the door and discovers the
Japanese mirror.)
Evelyn- — Isn’t that something new ?
Saida (rising and crossing to Evelyn) — New and very,
very old.
Evelyn — Japanese, isn’t it?
Saida — Yes, I found it in an antique shop. The man
had no idea how valuable it was. See, ( she turns it to
show the hack), it has the plum blossom and the cherry
and the pine on the back and that strange symbol that
means an old Chinese proverb, “A mirror is the soul of
a woman.”
Evelyn — “A mirror is the soul of a woman.” ( Shakes
her head.) I cant say that I make much sense out of
that. Did the antique man tell you all this?
Saida — No; nobody told me. I think I must have
read it somewhere.
Page Fifty-Five
SuADOWLANO
Evelyn ( crossing to the
door ) — Well, I am glad some-
body invented glass. I dont
care for the looks of myself in
a Japanese mirror.
Saida ,( as tf slightly startled ) —
Why, did you notice that, too ?
Evelyn— That is not flattering, cer-
tainly.
Saida — I mean that one looks dif-
ferent in it . . .
Evelyn — I noticed that my nose
looked twice its ordinary size and my
other features frayed about the edges.
Haven’t you got over that nonsense
yet?
Saida ( returning to her careless
tone ) — Which nonsense? You call so
many things that.
Evelyn — About mirrors. You used
to be afraid of them.
Saida — I am still. Yet they fasci-
nate me. Especially old ones. Eve-
lyn, suppose a mirror had the power
to give back everything that had been
reflected in it.
Evelyn — A lucky thing it cant, I
should say!
Saida — There is something queer
about this one. Sometimes when I
look in it I cant see clearly. It is as
if someone had blown upon it. Then
it comes to me that if I looked long
enough I would see some-
thing — but I am afraid to
look.
Evelyn — Really, Saida,
you need a tonic.
Saida ( laughing ) — Dear
Evelyn ! You know, you
are what occultists call a
very young soul.
Evelyn ( scoffingly ) —
Indeed ! A debutante — or
still in its cradle?
Saida ( playfully )■ — To
be a young soui means that
you made your debut in
this world when you were
born this time. Now, / am
an old soul. I have been
here before, so I can pat-
ronize your youth.
Evelyn (at the door ) —
So you really aren’t going
to the Sanfords’. Poor
Philip ! How about him ?
Saida — Oh, I like Philip
well enough, but one gets to
the end of him. He is like
all the others. I want some
one with perspective, vis-
tas, a far horizon ; some-
thing that escapes as I fol-
low it. Something that
seems unattainable.
Evelyn (prosaically)—-
Well, I am sure I hope you
will find him.
Saida (playfully shaking her) — You mat-
.. A ter-of-fact creature! Did you never in
your whole life wish you might have an
adventure ?
Evelyn (in a tone tinged with potential disapproval ) — ■
An adventure
Saida (ecstatically) — Yes, yes — some wild, beautiful,
terrible adventure. Something different from all this.
Oh, nothing ever happens to me . . . And yet, you
“They are walking down
the path together . . .
someone is singing under
the trees ... I hear
them but I cant see any
more ...”
Page Fifty-Six
Smadowuand
am
know, I always have the feeling that there is one waiting
for me around the corner . . . some glimpse of a strange
new world. Perhaps tonight . . . who knows . . .
Evelyn — You crazy child, good-by!
(Evelyn leaves. Saida, left alone, unpins her hat and
goes behind the curtain into her bedroom. While she is
out of the room the Japanese servant silently ushers in
Roland Haveneth, then withdraws. Haveneth looks
about and goes up to examine the Buddha. Saida re-
enters from the bedroom without seeing him immediately.
She has changed her street gown for a loose Oriental
gown of gorgeous color. Its effect is to transform her
type into something completely Asiatic. She goes up to
the chest and, opening a drawer, takes out some Egyptian
beads and tries them about her head. Turning toward
the mirror, she discovers Haveneth. She stands motion-
less a moment. As she recollects herself she quickly
removes the beads from her head and drops them upon
the chest.)
Saida — I think you have made a mistake.
Haveneth — I beg pardon ; your man brought
me up.
Saida— He is a new man, and doesn’t under-
stand English very well.
Haveneth — But we spoke Japanese. ( An-
swering her surprised look.) I have just come
from the East. I asked for Judge Blair.
Saida — My father is not in yet. But he will
be presently, if you care to wait. ( Moves toward
the bell.) Mosaku will show you down.
Haveneth — Cant I wait here, please? I
not a burglar or anything unconventional.
I am just a harmless journalist, a foreign
correspondent. My name is Haveneth.
(Saida turns, her hand upon the bell,
and looks at him. Her arm drops at her
side. She recollects her dress.)
Saida — It would be informal, certainly.
Haveneth — It is not a conven-
tional gown, you mean. Yet it looks
more natural to me, coming from
the Far East, than modern West-
ern clothes. (Pauses.) So why
should you mind being seen in it by
a strange man, except that all our
lives are spent in conforming to
conventions that are reversed by
geography ?
Saida ( slowly , seating herself ) —
You may wait here if you want to.
Haveneth ( removes his coat and
hat and lays them upon a chair.
Glances about) — You are evidently
an Oriental traveler also. You have
picked up some rare things.
Saida — No, I have only been to
places every one goes where there
are good hotels for the Anglo-Saxon.
But some day I intend to see all the
far, strange corners of the earth.
Haveneth — You are fond of
Oriental things, I see. Perhaps it
was some vibration from them I felt
in the room.
Saida — Vibration ?
Haveneth — I felt it the moment
I came in, like something
trying to speak to me.
Living in the East makes
one sensitive to such
things. Coming in here
out of that Northern
snow-storm, I felt sud-
denly a thousand miles away, as if I were back there
again.
Saida — Yes, I know. Sometimes when I am alone
here I put out the lamp and light those tall candles. Then
I can believe I am living in the Arabian nights. But
when people are here — —
Haveneth — They keep it away? ( She nods.) Dont
let people come.
“Dost thou love me
then, my master.
Only keep me near
thee. I am thy
slave. I do thy
will”
Page Fifty-Seven
SwADOWLAND
“Who are you that enters SAIDA — I dont. No one can
the queen’s presence un- come here unless I ask them.
asked ' Haveneth — But I came
unasked. If you were super-
stitious, now
Saida ( gives him a startled glance, but when she
answers, speaks lightly) — You wouldn’t be so un chival-
rous as to bring me bad luck, would you? Cast the evil
eye upon me, or anything like that ?
Haveneti-i ( looking at her intently ) — If I am reallv
your first uninvited guest — it seems significant.
Saida — I dont find significance in accidents.
Haveneth — There is no such thing as accident ( Their
eyes meet. In a lighter tone ) Do I dispel the Arabian
night ?
Saida ( evasively ) — One is more likely to be imagina-
tive alone, dont you think ?
Haveneth — Imagination ! Is that what you call it ?
Saida — What else?
Haveneth — You might call it — memory.
Saida ( slightly startled) — Memory
Haveneth ( impulsively , rising) — Let’s put out the
lamp and sit in the candle-light. May I ?
Saida ( after a moment’s hesitation) — -If you like.
( Haveneth lights the tall candles and puts out the elec-
tric lamp.)
Haveneth — There ! Now we are somewhere east of
Suez and America is far away. {He pauses before the
Buddha.) That is a fine one. {To Saida, who has risen
{Continued on page 66)
Page Fifty-Eight
SuADOWLANO
The Summer Drama Turns
from Revolvers to Romance
By The Critic
but pretty
little rich girl
who tries to
win hi m ,
done in just
the right tem-
po by Mary
Kennedy.
‘ 1 Martin-
ique,” Lawr-
ence Eyre’s
new play,
goes further
— in time and
locale — than
“Not So Long
Ago.” Eyre
makes the
West Indies
his back-
ground and 1842 his time, frankly admits his indebtedness
to the exotic Lafcadio Hearn and at least brings a new
figure to the stage- — the Belle Affranchie or mulatto maid
of a certain part of the tropics.
“Martinique” concerns itself with the tragic predica-
ment of a convent-bred girl, the daughter of a marriage-
less menage in Paris, who comes to the home of her
father in Martinique only to find herself ostracized and
forced to dwell in the quarter. A young chap comes to
love her but, before the tangled consequences are un-
raveled, the romance ends in tragedy.
There is flashing color in Mr. Eyre’s drama but not
the breath of life. The characters never seem real people,
for Mr. Eyre seems unable to give them reality. Indeed,
he has told his melodramatic tale inexpertly. Every now
and then, a character pauses to remark, “Listen, my dear,
and I will explain.” Forthwith follow involved revela-
tions necessary to furthering the story.
Just once does “Martinique” approach something be-
sides pasteboard tragedy. It is in the brightly colored
“vandoo” in the quarter where the Belles Affranchies
gather with their lovers. The players of “Martinique,”
it seems to us, miss the human note. Josephine Victor
is the pitiful little Zabette from Paris, Vincent Coleman
is the youth with love awakened, and Emmett Corrigan
is a very sanctimonious monastery abbot, who is a sort
of official explainer of the plot. As a half-breed villain,
Arthur Hohl is picturesque but very, obvious.
“Sophie,” Phillip Moeller’s peppery lilt of Paris in the
days of courtiers, courtesans and intrigue, appropriately
belongs in the romantic revival. Mr. Moeller has taken
a historic character. Sophie Arnauld, the opera singer of
decollete morals, and constructed three acts of epigrams.
Some of these are real bons mots of the real Sophie and
some are the property of Mr. Moeller but all of them
are deliberately risque. Neither the real Sophie nor Mr.
Moeller seems to us much more adroit or skilful than our
bedroom farce constructors of Broadway. With all her
rash statements, “Sophie,” we must admit, rather bored
us. Emily Stevens gave a characteristic Fiske-ian
( Continued on page 63)
JOSE RUBEN and ELSIE FERGUSON
in “Sacred and Profane Love.”
T HE dramatic season of 1919-20 came in like a lion —
with lurid melodrama galore — but went out quite
lamblike, via the sentimental romantic route. From
revolvers, ouija boards and murders, audiences turned
with relief to the furbelows and laces of other days.
On the crest of this colorful wave arrived “Not So
Long Ago,” a comedy of New York in the early ’70’s,
which introduced a playwriting newcomer, Arthur Rich-
man. New York dramatic critics pronounced “Not So
Long Ago” exceedingly appealing and saw a whimsical
note in the way the characters discuss twenty-five cent
eggs. But the charm is deeper than any such material
viewpoint ; a gentle grace it is, extremely sentimental
perhaps, but always relieved by a saving sense of humor.
There is but a slender theme : the love of a little seam-
stress for the son of the Fifth Avenue household in which
she is employed, but it is presented from that roseate
dream viewpoint with which youth views life. Your
dreams and mine may have gone to smash but “Not So
Long Ago” will lift you back to the might-have-been.
New York had atmosphere and color in the ’70s of
“Not So Long Ago,” for the boarding house “brown
stone fronts” of today were then homelike residences,
despite their mohair furniture and framed samplers ; the
streets depended upon lamplighters rather than Lewis J.
Selznick electric signs for illumination ; and horse-cars
actually stopped at corners for passengers.
“Not So Long Ago,” by the way, is delightfully played.
The fragile web is never broken. The heroine, who
calmly lies her way into romance, is a figure of charm
and humor as played by Eva Le Gallienne, while Sidney
Blackmer is a genuine discovery — almost another Richard
Barthelmess — as the hero. And there is a vain, shallow
HENRY MILLER and BLANCHE BATES
in “The Famous Mrs. Fair.”
Page Fifty-Nine
SwADOWLAND
mamamm
.'i'
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MILDRED HARRIS CHAPLIN
Abbe"
Exclusive Study of the Cinema Star
Page Sixty
Su/XDQWLANO
Photograph by Ed. Thayer Monroe.
LOUISE HUFF
The Newest Star of the Selznick Pictures
Page Sixty-One
SwADQWLANO
Shadowlanci’s Guide to the Theater
Astor . — “East is West,” with Fay Bainter. A ’Frisco China-
town tale told with the sure-fire theatrical tricks that never fail.
Belasco . — “The Son-Daughter,” with Lenore Ulric. A typical
Belasco melodrama of New York Chinatown with the usual
surfeit of trappings.
Bijou . — “The Ouija Board.” A spiritualistic thriller in which
spooks solve a murder mystery. Will keep you tense.
Booth . — “Not So Long Ago.” A delightful and charming little
romance of New York in the early 70s. You will like this.
Casino. — -“Betty, Be Good.” Conventional musical stuff with
tuneful Riesenfeld music and the personable Josephine Whittell.
Central . — “As You Were.” Fanciful, lively, and amusing — and
the piquant Irene Bordini and the laughable Sam Bernard.
Century. — “Florodora.” Interesting and winning revival. The
1920 sextette is attractive and Eleanor Painter scores.
Cohan . — “The Hottentot.”
Comedy . — “My Lady Friends,” with Clifton Crawford. Typi-
cal farce entertainment, pleasantly done. June Walker wins.
Cort . — “Abraham Lincoln.” A noteworthy dramatic offering
and a poetic presentation of the great American. You must
see it.
Eltinge. — “Martinique.” A colorful and atmospheric tragedy
of the French West Indies that somehow falls short.
Forty-Eighth . — “The Storm.” Old fashioned melodrama with
a new fashioned star, Helen MacKellar. She is the season’s find.
Forty-Fourth . — “Look Who’s Here.” The usual thing in girl
shows with the unusual Cleo Mayfield.
Gaiety. — “Lightnin’,” with Frank Bacon,
records.
Still breaking
Garrick . — “Jane Clegg.” Drab but powerful Ervine drama,
splendidly acted.
Henry Millers . — “The Famous Mrs. Fair,” with Henry Miller
and Blanche Bates. Vigorous play dealing with woman in
business or home.
Hudson. — “Clarence.” Booth Tarkington’s delightful comedy
o-f every-day American life. The best comedy of the year.
Knickerbocker. — “Shavings.” Regular thing in rural drama.
Liberty . — “The Night Boat.”
Little . — “Beyond the Horizon,” with Richard Bennett. Eugene
O’Neill’s gruelling but smashing drama.
Long acre . — “Adam and Eva.” Still doing nicely.
Lyceum . — “The Gold Diggers,” with Ina Claire.
Lyric. — “What’s In a Name.” The most beautiful of the year’s
musical entertainments. Colorful plus.
New Amsterdam .— Ed Wynn’s Carnival. Mostly Wynn, which
is enough.
Nora Bayes. — “Lassie.” Tinkling musical show in a “Bunty
Pulls the Strings” background. Tessa Kosta a hit.
Playhouse . — “The Wonderful Thing,” with Jeanne Eagels.
Conventional but entertaining.
Republic . — “The Sign on the Door.” Melodrama with a kick.
Selwyn. — “Buddies.” Amusing comedy of the A. E. F. in
France after the coming of the armistice.
Thirty-Ninth. — “Scandal.” The usual Cosmo Hamilton effort
to be daring, plus the pleasant Francine Larrimore.
Vanderbilt. — “Irene.”
Winter Garden . — “The Passing Show of 1919.” First aid for
the tired business man.
Among the Leading
Photoplays
The Yellow Typhoon, with Anita Stewart. The
star in a dual role. Melodrama in which the long
arm of coincidence is pulled out of joint.
Mrs. Temple’s Telegram, with Bryant Washburn.
The old farce is well celluloided. Wanda Hawley
lends attractive aid.
The Dancin’ Fool, with Wallie Reid. Typical
Reid screen fooling with Bebe Daniels as an optic-
ally interesting cabaret belle.
The Silver Horde. A Rex Beach tale of the
Northwest full of interest and atmosphere. Myrtle
Stedman a hit.
Why Change Your Wife f Cecil de Mille’s latest
and most luxurious sex study. Gloria Swanson,
Thomas Meighan and Bebe Daniels score.
Romance, in which Doris Keane plays the role of
the operatic singer so successfully played by her for
five years on the speaking stage.
P age Sixty-T wo
Reflections of a Gentle Cynic
( Continued from page 44)
thirsting for it. Perhaps — who knows ? —
it may be bitter-sweet . . .
“If I were in the least bit vain, I could
be tempted to be proud of thus facing
my doom and fathoming its depths with-
out trembling or shrinking ...
“What was this? Is someone com-
ing? No? Terrible! This room gets
on my nerves. Oh, I do wish they would
come ! What sense is there in making
me wait like that? I am willing to do
penance. I am willing to be punished.
Why am I not taken away from here?
“This room is simply ghastly in its
utter dulness, and meanness, and dreari-
ness. I remember that once, somewhere
in the mountains, I had to sleep in a
miserable hotel where the sheets were
damp and grey and nasty. This room
here is just like those sheets — damp and
grey and nasty ... I cannot stand it
any longer. Somebody has to come. I
am going to call, to scream, to bang at
the doors, to hurl myself against the
walls. What can they do more than
punish me?”
She really screams, shrilly and wildly,
not at all like a proud and silent soul,
but like any living, hysterical woman,
and, after a while, Satan himself ap-
pears. He is correct, polite and tired.
“But, my dear lady,” he says, in a very
formal and distant manner, with marked
and obviously pained disapproval, “my
dear lady, I beg of you ! What a noise !
That is not permitted.”
The Lady — I am sorry, but this wait-
ing gets my nerves all on edge. What
is going to happen to me ?
Satan — Happen? Nothing.
The Lady — Nothing? But the tor-
tures ? The red-hot ploughshares ? The
eternal ice? The unheard-of, fantastic,
Dante-esque dooms?
Satan- — Fables. Nursery tales. They
do not exist. Who would do such
things ?
The Lady — But, then, what are the
lost souls doing here ? What shall I do ?
Satan — N othing.
The Lady ( frightened ) — Nothing?
Satan (with a melancholy finality ) —
Nothing.
The Lady — Nothing! All eternity
long, nothing — -why, that’s impossible.
All eternity long I shall sit in this idiotic-
ally dull room, look at the grey walls and
do nothing? Never*! I protest! That
is against every rule, against every tra-
dition. Nobody has told me that, no-
body has warned me. I will not stand
for it. I am going to scream, to howl,
to beat at the walls, to batter at the
door . . .
SatAn ( very tired and extremely
wearied ) — I am used to that. All new-
comers do it. Until they see that it is
quite useless, that all their efforts are
futile and in vain and utterly hopeless,
and then . . .
The Lady ( trembling ) — Then . . . ?
Satan — Then — nothing.
The Lady — Nothing — nothing! But
that is fearful, that is cruel, that is hell.
Satan ( resigned , colorless ) — Why,
yes, of course, that is hell.
And thus he retires and leaves the
poor and foolish little lady alone with
the one thing she has never thought of,
the one thing she has never faced nor
fathomed, the one thing worse than
doom and perdition, the thing a shallow
soul like hers absolutely cannot endure,
with— NOTHING.
iinimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiMiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimmmmiiiiiiiiiiimiii
The Story of the Thea-
ter Guild
( Continued from page 42)
direction is in the hands of the business
manager, Martha Messinger, and there is
an advisory committee numbering Ken-
neth Macgowan, Ralph Roeder, Irving
Pitchell and Ralph Block.
The guild maintains no permanent
stock company in the ordinary sense of
the words, altho certain players closely
affiliated with the organization are given
first consideration in casting. This means
that occasional guest players are invited
by the guild. James K. Hackett, who
played in “The Rise of Silas Lapham,”
was a guest. Mr. Hackett later pur-
chased the drama for a road tour. Mar-
garet Wycherly, now appearing in “Jane
Clegg,” is another guest player. Whether
this policy will continue next season
remains to be seen.
The guild, too, intends to make its
theater, whenever possible, the home of
new and ambitious producers. It invited
Maurice Browne to present his new ideas
in stagecraft at the Garrick for a series
of matinees this spring. This resulted in
Mr. Browne’s presentation of the Medea
of Euripides.
It is interesting to note the personnel
of the board of directors behind an or-
ganization of such vast possibilities and
so unique in the American theater.
Phillip Moeller is a playwright, first re-
vealed by the Washington Square Play-
ers and now a steady contributor to the
professional theater. Lawrence Langner
is likewise a playwright, as well as a
lawyer. Maurice Wortheim is a banker.
Lee Simonson is a creator of scenic set-
tings, also first revealed by the Washing-
ton Square Players. Helen Westley and
Helen Freeman are players. Miss West-
ley did notable work with the old Wash-
ington Square Players and is a strong
factor in present productions.
The Theater Guild program steadily
carries this announcement : “The play-
reading department of the Theater Guild
requests the cooperation of authors, pub-
lishers and agents in securing plays of
SwAOQWLANQ
distinction, both serious and comic, for
present and future production.”
Will next year’s five offerings reveal a
vital contributor to the native drama — -
another Eugene O’Neill or another Philip
Moeller ? The real permanency of the
guild will rest upon its second year
achievements.
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The Summer Drama
Turns from Revolvers
to Romance
( Continued from page 59)
performance as Sophie ; nervous, flash-
ing, but frequently inarticulate. The rest
of the cast was not a happy one.
Arriving a little late on the late la-
mented avalanche of melodrama was
Crane Wilbur’s thriller, “The Ouija
Board,” in which a fake spiritualist, who
endeavors to get control of a susceptible
widower’s fortune, is the central figure.
In the midst of a “framed” seance the
spirit of the aged man’s departed wife
takes possession of affairs. There are
other thrills, too, such as when the “spir-
itualist” is murdered and his dead hand
writes a psychic message and later when
one of the characters is killed by a bullet
from a revolver cunningly arranged
within a victrola.
Mr. Wilbur’s melodrama is obviously
unreal stuff but it achieves its purpose ;
i.e., keeping an audience more or less
tense. It is effectively played by George
Gaul as a young investigator in the ps) r -
chic, Howard Lang as the spiritualist
faker and Edward Ellis as a slangy
crook. Mr. Wilbur, himself, plays a
role, but he is quite actory.
iiii!miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiimiimiiiii!iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimimiiiimiiiimiiliimiiiiii!ii
BIOGRAPHY
By Charlotte Becker
One knew what went to make him, when
one saw
The house where he had spent his boy-
hood days ;
The drawing-room, in faded blues and
greys—
Victorian, without a modern flaw —
That shrined old portraits, stern and
firm of jaw,
Yet with kind, patient eyes; the oak-
lined hall,
Where stealthy shadows stole along
the wall
Between shelved tomes of history and
law.
And, when one saw the garden, then one
knew
Why subtle fragrance thru his essays
crept,
Hints of clove-pinks and daphne-
boughs, that swept
The old stone balustrade, where ivy
grew ;
And, by the arbor’s knife-scratched
heart and dove,
One knew why he touched, gently, on
young love.
Page Sixty-Three
SWADOWLANO
They have taken us over wide seas to
distant lands where music strummed and
strange and wicked things occurred be-
hind dimly lighted windows. We have
felt that it was necessary to be trans-
ported “somewheres east of Suez.” But
Dr. Straton assures us that New York
is as bad as the best of them. Why,
then, should we steep ourselves in mov-
ing pictures or novels when adventure
may lie just around the corner. Per-
haps it needs the eye of a Dr. Straton to
find it. More than likely, the common-
place, humdrum citizen who followed the
adventurous trail of Dr. Straton to some
floridly heralded den of iniquity would
find nothing more than a crowded dance
hall with a number of weary workers
trying to snatch a little ecstasy out of
life by stumbling over each other’s toes
to the tune of “Dardanella.” We fear
that the fine and thrilling sights which
the doctor saw were possible only for the
magic eyes of a Don Quixote and most
of us are Sancho Panzas. Still, we
should rejoice to have left among us even
one Quixote to charge upon the ginmills.
Dr. Straton himself feels that the gay
life of New York is at best a temporary
attraction. “Have you ever thought,” he
writes, “what a good, husky tidal wave
would do to ‘Little Old New York/ as
we call her? Have you ever imagined
the Woolworth skyscraper butting head-
long into the Equitable Building, thru
such an earthquake as that which laid
San Francisco’s proud beauty in the
dust ? Have you ever imagined the
Metropolitan Tower crashing over on
Madison Square Garden sometime, when
there were tens of thousands of people
in there at some worldly, Godless cele-
bration of the Lord’s day?” We must
admit that we never have, nor does the
prospect give us such pleasure as it
seems to afford Dr. Straton. As a mat-
ter of fact, we are not afraid of the tidal
wave because we live on the eighth floor.
However, that would be all the worse in
case of an earthquake. Either would be
a little too exciting. Perhaps our trepi-
dation is due in part to the fact that we
are not quite in as safe a position as Dr.
Straton. We are not certain that we
would be among the elect, while we
haven’t a doubt that if the wave came,
Dr. Straton would be found sitting safely
on the crest, thumbing his nose at the
sinners in the water.
Next to Dr. Straton, no author has
found quite as much to get excited about
as young Mr. F. Scott Fitzgerald, author
of “This Side of Paradise,” who came
recently from Princeton and wants to tell
the world that it little recks or knows the
evil and pernicious ways of the colle-
gians. Compared to the students pic-
tured in Fitzgerald’s novel, Don Juan
was the veriest freshman.
“On the Triangle trip,” he writes, con-
Little Old Babylon
( Continued from page 43)
cerning his hero, “Amory had come into
constant contact with that great current
American phenomenon, the ‘petting
party.’ None of the Victorian mothers —
and most of them were Victorian — had
any idea how casually their daughters
were accustomed to be kist . . . He
never realized how widespread it was
until he saw the cities between New
York and Chicago as one vast juvenile
intrigue . . . Amory found it rather
fascinating to feel that any popular girl
he met before eight he might possibly
kiss before twelve.”
Some reviewers have hailed this as a
startling revelation. A number of Prince-
ton men, particularly those who belonged
to the Triangle Club, have hastened to
write letters to the newspapers, declaring
roundly that it is not so. For our part,
we cannot get worked up over the ques-
tion. Rather, we feel like young Mr.
Bunker Bean, who was wont to remark,
“I can imagine nothing of less conse-
quence.”
In our opinion, the finest novel of the
month is “Miss Lulu Bett,” by Zona
Gale. There is nothing sensational in
this. It is a quiet tale of small-town folk
and yet there is more to warm the heart
and stir the reader in a well-told story
enlivened by keen observation and hu-
morous insight than all the college and
cowboy novels of a season. Miss Gale,
who is known as the author of “Friend-
ship Village,” has proved before that
she knows her people and how they talk,
but there is something more in this book
than in any of the others. The senti-
mental veneer is gone. She is not afraid
to show the pettiness and the meanness
and the tyranny which may live and
flourish in the oft-lauded small-town
community. And yet, with all this, Miss
Gale has not drawn any morbid picture.
There are brave things, too. The story
is in itself no more than a retelling of the
legend of Cinderella done in all the de-
tails of our own day. And it is a good
story even if it always has been.
Of the vast number of adventure
novels which are brought out in the
spring to insure the public a sufficient
supply of light summer reading, we have
only dipped here and there. We have a
certain prejudice against cowboy stories.
The formula is never changed and the
treatment varies only slightly from book
to book. Few of the tales carry convic-
tion. We have been informed that these
cowboy stories are particularly popular
in the West. The men ride miles from
the ranches to procure them and they
read them with avidity. They serve to
take their minds away from the reality
of the humdrum life which they lead.
And yet, tho it follows the usual model
with a great deal of fidelity, we found
Max Brand’s “Trailin’ ” a readable yarn.
There were times, of course, when we
hoped that something would happen to
the hero. His success was entirely too
unbroken. In the very first chapter he
leaped from a box at Madison Square
Garden to ride a fiery horse which had
terrified all the cowboys in a Wild West
show. From that point on he went from
triumph to triumph. When bad men
pointed guns at him, he laughed and then
knocked them down with rapid swings
to the stomach or the jaw. When he
glanced at women, they loved him, and
bullets could not even rumple his hair.
He swam torrents and escaped from
every trap. Naturally, he was fearless.
A man like that could have no excuse
for cowardice. But in spite of the fact
that everything has been prearranged for
the hero, the book moves at such a lively
pace that it holds the attention.
Henry Oyen’s “The Plunderer” we
found less interesting. In this book, the
author practically promised the reader
that his villain would triumph over the
hero. Let any man consider this para-
graph, which occurs late in the book :
“They clinched; and the moment
Roger felt those vast, soft hands tight-
ening upon him the shock brought back
to him a sort of reason. Garman was
the stronger. His right hand caught
Roger’s clenched fist within an inch of
his chin, and his gorilla grip held the fist
helpless. His huge hand encased Rog-
er’s fist as one might hold a baseball ;
and slowly, surely, gloatingly he bent the
arm.”
Now we ask the jury which man will
win the fight. But if the jury is trained
in the reading of popular novels it will
reply that it needs more information.
“Which one,” it will ask, “is the hero?”
To this we must answer that Roger, the
weaker, is the principal estimable young
man in the book and that Garman, of the
gorilla strength, is an unmitigated scoun-
drel. Whereupon, the jury, without
bothering to leave the box, will announce
firmly, “Roger will win in the end.”
And indeed he does. Garman is fool-
ish enough to speak slightingly of An-
nette, and at once the hero’s punches take
on new power and Garman is knocked
spinning. It may be all regular and
proper and according to precedent, but
we cannot see the justice of it. It seems
to us that most of the battles between
heroes and villains in our popular novels
are perilously like fake fights. At any
rate, we have yet to hear of a victory by
a villain. It almost seems as if the
authors were just a wee bit partial.
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ENCHANTMENT
By Le Baron Cooke
The twinkle of footlights.
Soft plucking of strings,
The swish of a curtain:
The thrill it all brings !
Page Sixty-Four
SuADOWLANO
shirt to-be-called-for, and read between
the highly colored lines of fiction the
true story of a lonely gallant little heart,
wistful for beauty in the midst of life’s
ugliness. Amanda went back to the
French Hand Laundry and Madame
Gallifilet’s wrath, weaving into her ro-
mance the state figure of “me aunt, the
Dutchess, who came in a coach drawed
by five milk-white steeds with a message
from me father, the Juke.”
“The Joke, you mean,” sneered the
girl with the mouse colored pompadour,
who had just blistered her hand, “You
myke me tired, you an’ your swells ! I’ll
be glad when your fine toff, Horace,
comes for ’is shirt an’ shows you up for
a liar, that I will !”
But Amanda’s faith was proof against
jibes. She contrived to pat Horace’s
stiff purple shirt bosom as she passed its
shelf. There was Spring in the air, even
in the steamy, sudsy air of the laundry,
and Spring’s magic. Amanda’s small,
pointed face was tinged with faint color,
her eyes were starry as she bent over the
heavy iron. To the uncritical gaze of
Ben Willoughby she was beautiful, de-
sirable.
“Wot sye to a show tonight?” he asked
her, gruffly, to cover his shyness. “I’ll
stand treat. There’s a piece on at the
Queen’s Own, called “ ’Er Father’s Curse
or the Lost ’Eiress.” It’s a little bit of
all right, wot ho ?”
The lights of London blazed in the
early spring dusk, putting out the stars.
Ben and Amanda walked arm in arm,
one of the jostling, happy evening crowd.
Under the broken hat brim, the small,
eager face was aflame with love of life.
The theater, tawdry with peeling gilt
and greyish red velvet seats was un-
dreamed of splendor, the curtain, daubed
with corpulent cupids, the gateway to
Wonderland. She sat taut on the edge
of her seat, flat chest rising and falling
in gaspy breaths. Even Ben, the every-
day and unromantic, shared the spell of
the moment and took on unwonted sig-
nificance. “I’m so ’appy,” breathed
Amanda, “That I cant ’ardly hold all of
it. I’m all swoll up with ’appiness !”
The curtain creaked up to the scrape
of the orchestra showing a canvas garden
with bright magenta roses twining about
a cottage casement out of which leaned
a lady in soiled pink satin and sang in
undoubted cockney accents a melting
ballad. Approached the villain in a
moustache as black as his heart. The
heroine repulsed his wooing, he seized
her roughly in his arms. Amanda posi-
tively panted. Her meager little figure
trembled, she clutched at Ben’s arm.
“Hold ! Scoundrel !” The Hero has
entered, tall, with dark curls and flashing
eyes. He flings back his red velvet cloak,
raises his sword, takes a stride forward
and strikes a heroic attitude that wins
Suds
( Continued from page 38)
instant commendation from the audience.
As he turns to bow — an ecstatic scream
from the gallery — •
“Horace ! Oh, Horace !”
Amanda had risen, despite Ben’s jerk-
ing hand, her face radiant. A sob broke
from her, when at length the hand pre-
vailed and drew her down, and Ben saw
that he was no longer present to her.
“Oh, I’ve seen him,” she murmured rap-
turously, as they walked homeward,
“I’ve seen him, and aint he beautiful?
As beautiful as a angel, that’s him !”
The very next day, Horace Green-
smith, Esquire, came for his forgotten
shirt. A dozen irons stood motionless
over a dozen doomed pieces of laundry
as he demanded it in a loud, assertive
tone. He’d left it ’ere afore he went un
tour — he ’oped the bloomin’ plyce ’adnt
lost it; and all the time he did not seem
to see the quivering little figure behind
the counter. But Amanda, desperate for
her dream, leaned toward him and caught
his amazed hand in both her own.
“Please !” she begged under her breath,
“please, couldn’t you just smile oncet at
me, and act as if you know me? I’ll ex-
plain when they stop starin’ — — ” and
aloud in a society tone, “Oh, Horace !
To think o’ seein’ you again like this!
And how’d you leave me father, the
Juke?”
Horace Greensmith colored dully, a
thick red that ran over his cheaply hand-
some face to the coarse black curls, care-
fully oiled on his forehead. “I sye !” he
said angrily, “wot are you trying to make
gyme of me for? I want me shirt, I do !”
She trembled with agony. “I told ’em
I knew you!” Amanda hurried, “I — I
boasted about you — you were so ’and-
some ”
He was flattered. He felt of his
purple necktie, threw back his shoulders
and smiled with thick red lips. “You’re
a queer ’un !” he told her good-naturedly,
“tell you wot ! I’ll tyke you to Hammer-
smith this afternoon. It’s a bank holi-
day!”
And, leaning across the counter in full
view of the gaping girls, he kist Amanda,
with immense condescension and self-
approval. The small pointed face grew
quite white. Amanda’s eyes, passing the
perfumed Horace, fell upon Ben’s
stricken face in the doorway, and sud-
denly she pushed him away with des-
perate hands. “I — I — ’ere’s your shirt,
Mr. Greensmith ! I couldn’t go to Ham-
mersmith ,” she tried to laugh piti-
fully, in the wreckage of her dream, “Me
new hat hasn’t come from Selfridges yet !
No — truly — I — I couldn’t go ”
Careless of the stares of the other girls,
she watched Horace’s broad, black and
white checked back disappear, crestfallen,
thru the door. The misery in her eyes
was not because of their subdued titter-
ing, but because she had lost her long-
cherished dream of someone strong and
brave and true who would come and lead
her out of this dreary reality into a bright
dream-world. She had seen his greedy
glance, felt his jocular kiss, knew now
that sbe had worshipped a tinsel god.
“It was all a lie !” Amanda murmured
desolately, “this is the truth — the laundry
—and the scolding and the blisters .
And I’m not anything, and nobody’ll ever
love me. Nobody never could ”
And then she saw Ben’s face again.
He was not handsome — Ben — with his
freckles and snub nose and his queer
carroty hair, but his eyes — Amanda gave
a little cry, gripped her hands on her flat
chest. Strong, and brave and true — they
were the eyes of her dream, the eyes of
him who would come to lead her out of
the house of bondage
A carriage and pair drew up outside
the laundry with a flourish. A footman
in dark green livery with silver buttons
pushed open the door and looked grandly
about him as Madame Gallifilet hurried
forward. “I ’ave a mesage,” he de-
claimed, in rolling-chest tones, “from
Lady Burke for Miss Amanda Afflick !”
“My Gawd !” breathed the Pompadour,
as they watched Amanda tear open the
crested envelope, “Pinch me, Liz, I’m
seein’ things !”
Amanda folded the note. She held her
head very high, and spoke to the respect-
ful footman loftily. “You may wait out-
side, Varlet!” said Amanda, “I’ll get me
hat and coat on at once !”
Dazedly, the French Hand Laundry
and its proprietress, Madame Jeanne
Gallifilet, stood watching while Amanda
pinned on the battered old hat, her lan-
guid motions giving it the look to their
startled eyes, of a Paris creation.
“Where — where,” began Madame, and
swallowed, “where are you going?”
Amanda dragged her shapeless coat
about her shoulders regally. “I’m going
to Craigmoor Castle,” she answered, “to
visit me — me aunt, Lady Agatha Burke
for the afternoon.” She held out one
hand, great-ladywise, “Come, Ben ! The
carriage waits. Let us begone !”
It was Amanda, Daughter of a Juke,
who swept out with Ben. Quite plainly
they saw her pink satin train.
A CORRECTION
Thru a typographical slip, the color
plate of Evelyn Nesbit in the June
Shadowland was credited to Alfred
Cheney Johnston and the color plate of
Corinne Griffith to the Moffett Studios
of Chicago. The original portrait of
Miss Griffith should have been credited
to Mr. Johnston and the picture of Miss
Nesbit to the Moffett Studios.
Page Sixty-Five
5uADOWLA.NO
and stands looking up at the Buddha ) :
I believe you are saying your prayers
to it !
Saida ( recalling herself and speaking
in a light tone ) — You know, I did when
I was a child. We were playing heathen.
We have always had that Buddha. An
ancestor in the East India trade brought
it home.
Haveneth ( lifting an Egyptian ush-
apti from the shelf ) — Where did you get
this ?
Saida — In an antique shop in London.
I saw it in the window and felt compelled
to buy it.
Haveneth ( half jestingly) — Perhaps
it’s your ka, your double. It has a look
of you.
Saida — You flatter me !
Haveneth ( turning it toward her ) —
But really it has. Cant you see it? No
doubt it was buried with you when you
were made into a little mummy long ago.
(She replaces it upon the shelf.)
Saida — You have traveled a great deal.
Haveneth — Yes, 1 am a sort of Wan-
dering Jew.
Saida — Then you have no country.
PIaveneth — I hardly know what to
call myself. I was born in the East. I
had a Hindu nurse. My parents were
English, but we have lived all our
lives away from England. And you are
Judge Blair’s daughter — a real bred-in-
the-bone American. Yet I feel the mys-
tery of the East about you, something
that suggests the inheritance of an infi-
nitely old civilization ; something that
seems to awaken memories. I wonder if
we have ever met. I feel as if I had
known you somewhere . . . But that is
impossible.
Saida — No, I am sure we have never
met. But ... it is odd ... I had tkat
same feeling when I looked up and saw
you standing there.
Haveneth ( leaning forward) — You
have a Japanese look, too. It is not ex-
actly your features — not anything fixed.
It is the firelight, perhaps. It makes one
imagine tilings.
Saida — Imagination, not memory? So
you are a foreign correspondent. For an
English paper?
Haveneth — - English and American
both. You see, I rather drifted into the
work. I was out there when the war
broke out — I happened to be the only
person in command of the English lan-
guage that knew certain things. I cabled
the stuff to London. Then one of the
papers engaged me. I know some Jap-
anese and a little Chinese and two or
three Indian dialects.
Saida ( drawing a long breath) — What
a wonderful life! ( After a moment)
Tell me — -when you go to places for the
The Mirror
( Continued from page 58)
first time, do you ever have a feeling of
having been there before?
Haveneth — Yes, I had it once in the
most remote corner of Asia. I think I
was the first being from the western
world who had ever invaded it. {Pause.)
I am sure that I had been there before.
Saida {arrested) — In some other life,
you mean? {He nods.) I dont know if
you are serious, but sometimes I almost
believe that.
Haveneth — I do believe it.
Saida — Then why should we have
only these queer little flashes of memory
that escape like a dream before we can
catch them ?
Haveneth — We are here to live our
present life without prevision or mem-
ory, otherwise we would be nothing bet-
ter than puppets of destiny.
Saida {trying not to speak seriously)
— But in the end we own our own com-
plete soul, conscious of its experiences —
is that it ?
Haveneth — Yes. You know the Ori-
ental idea of the soul is different from
ours. 'It is not exactly the same indi-
vidual soul that returns, as they believe,
but elements of it. The strongest ele-
ments survive ; you are the same person,
yet not the same. The soul is like an
actor who remains himself, altho living
for the time in each of his many parts.
Saida — And while the play is on he
believes the character to be himself, then
wakes to find — no, I dont like that idea.
Haveneth — Of course you dont. The
Western mind clings so passionately to
the sense of its immediate personality.
Saida — Its immediate personality is
the only one it knows !
Haveneth — How much are you the
same person now that you were at ten?
Have you ever thought of that ? A man
in his seventies has already lived several
lives in several different environments in
this lifetime. He has been a number of
people at different ages and stages, yet he
recognizes all those past selves as belong-
ing to himself, altho he no longer feels
as they did. So, after all, you see, a man
is the sum of his past selves even in a
single lifetime.
Saida — That makes it seem more pos-
sible.
Haveneth — And the ruling passions
strong in death carry over from one life-
time to another — the loves and hates, the
good deeds and bad, the unfulfilled de-
sires. They are the bonds that hold us
to other souls. They are woven into an
invisible cord strong enough to draw us
thru the centuries, thru our successive
lifetimes until the debit is paid — but I am
giving you a lecture.
Saida — No; go on, I want to hear it
all. It would explain the mystery of
attraction and repulsion, this belief of
yours.
Haveneth — It explains everything —
the opportunities, all the apparent injus-
tices. No one can evade his debts, no
one suffers in vain — it is the working out
of a great law.
Saida {with a little shiver) — It sounds
terribly relentless. I would rather escape
a few penalties.
Haveneth — But you cant.
Saida {after a moment’s reflection,
rejecting the idea) — No, I refuse to be
such a fatalist. I must believe that I
choose my own way.
Haveneth — Ah, but you did choose.
You chose in passionless space between
the worlds. Our lives here are a pattern
that we weave in the dark.
Saida— A pattern that we weave in the
dark without choosing our design. I
dont like that idea.
Haveneth — That is because you have
lived all your life in the West.
Saida — And we do not see the pattern
until it is finished
Haveneth — No, but there are mo-
ments when one may catch a glimpse;
because your soul — your larger soul of
which you are only partly conscious — is
like a mirror that holds the pictures of all
your former lives.
Saida {glancing involuntarily at the
Japanese mirror) — Like a mirror. No,
no ; it’s nonsense. I wont believe that.
Haveneth {turning a direct attention
upon her) — Why did you take off those
beads you had on your head when I
came in ?
Saida {laughing) — Naturally, I felt a
little foolish at being caught masquerad-
ing like a child by a strange man.
Haveneth — Masquerading — why do
you use that word? You felt like your-
self in them when you were alone, didn’t
you ?
Saida {half startled) — Like myself?
I dont know. I have a funny feeling
about those beads. I had to buy them,
too. They sort of hypnotized me. I felt
as if they had been mine.
Haveneth — Perhaps they had. {Af-
ter a moment) : Put them on again.
{Picking up the beads and handing them
to her) : On your head, just as you had
them before. {She puts the beads on her
head.) Now you are back in Egypt. I
can feel the desert, all the mysteries of
the Sphinx are in your eyes. I have
seen you like this before. You had con-
demned a slave to death.
Saida {as one in a dream) — He had
disobeyed me . . . {Suddenly tears off
the beads.)
Haveneth — Why did you do that?
Saida — I felt as if something were
{Continued on page 68)
Page Sixty-Sir
A few of the latest
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alphabetically listed
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JOHN BARRYMORE in
DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDE
Directed by John S. Robertson
GEORGE FITZMAURICE’S
Production
“ON WITH THE DANCE!”
“THE COPPERHEAD”
With Lionel Barrymore
Directed by Charles Maigne
WILLIAM S. HART in
“THE TOLL GATE”
A William S. Hart Production
CECIL B. DeMILLE’S
Production
WHY CHANGE YOUR WIFE?
GEORGE H. MELFORD’S
Production
“THE SEA WOLF”
y wwtmwnt
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“EVERYWOMAN”
Directed by George H. Melford
With All-Star Cast
WILLIAM D. TAYLOR’S
Production
“HUCKLEBERRY FINN”
D INNER’S over, and the cool
of the evening calls you out.
Whither-away? To the theatre
that is showing a Paramount
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There’s where everybody is.
There’s where the flame of ro-
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There’s where the dusk is athrill
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ADOLPH ZUKOR Pres JESSE L. LASKY Vice Pres CECIL B. DE MILLE Director General
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EVERY NIGHTS A BIG NIGHT
I
Page Sixty-Seven
SUADOWLAND
slipping from me . . . That strange sen-
sation I had the first time I looked in the
mirror . . .
Haveneth — The mirror?
Saida ( indicating ) — That old Japan-
ese mirror over there.
Haveneth ( going up to examine the
mirror ) — I believe it came from Totomi.
Saida ( dreamily ) — Where the cherry
orchard lies between the town and the
great bronze bell of Mugenyama, made
of a thousand mirrors . . .
Haveneth (turning)- — You have been
there? (Saida shakes her head.) You
spoke as if you had.
Saida — Someone must have told me,
or I have read it somewhere.
Haveneth (looking in the mirror) —
It is not very clear.
Saida (eagerly) — You see it, too — -
that mist that comes when you look
Haveneth — Look now.
Saida (drawing hack) — No- — no; I
dont want to.
Haveneth (lightly, yet watching her
intently) — Why not? What do you ex-
pect to see ?
Saida (half laughing) — Myself, I sup-
pose.
Haveneth (with meaning) — You
might learn something more about your-
self. (Saida gives him a startled look.)
You know there are mirrors that can
show you all the buried secrets of your
soul. Come — look. (He takes her hand
to draw her toward the mirror. She al-
lows him to retain it an instant, then
draws it sharply away. )
Haveneth (in a low voice) — Why did
you do that? You broke the connection.
In another moment — —
Saida (agitated) — Nonsense. It was
nothing.
Haveneth — You felt it, too — that cur-
rent that passed between us. You broke
the connection. It is like lifting the tele-
phone receiver. The voice is there, but
you cant hear it until you
Saida (in agitation ) — I dont want to
talk about these things.
Haveneth- — Look at me. Are you
frightened? (Puts his hands lightly on
each shoidder and forces her to meet his
eyes. Drops his hands.) No, you are
not frightened. You are only afraid — as
a woman is on the edge of an adventure
in a strange country.
Saida (dreamily repeating) — An ad-
venture in a strange country . . .
Haveneth — Give me your hand while
I look in the mirror. (He takes her
hand in his left one and stands looking
into the mirror. Suddenly he exclaims
and, dropping her hand, covers his eyes
and moves back from the mirror.)
Saida (in suppressed excitement)—
You saw something. Why did you hide
your eyes?
The Mirror
(Continued from page 66)
Haveneth ( half dazedly) — I dont
know. For some reason, one fears to
look upon
Saida— U pon what ?
Haveneth (with his eyes upon her) —
Saida — T he future?
Haveneth (with his eyes upon her) —
The future, yes — enclosed in the past.
Saida (nervously smiling) — What a
Delphic utterance. Was it so terrible?
(He shakes his head.) Aren’t you going
to tell me what you saw?
Haveneth — A fter you have looked.
(Saida turns slowly to the mirror. He
leans against the mantel, watching her.)
Saida — T here is a mist across it. Ah,
the — face — the face I saw before. (She
stares intensely, with the expression of
one watching something.) The air is
pink with cherry blossoms . . . How
sweet they are.
Haveneth — I s no one there?
Saida — T hey are walking down the
path together . . . Someone is singing
under the trees ... I hear them, but I
cant see them any more . . .
Haveneth (in a low tone) — What is
the song?
(Saida slowly sinks down on her knees,
Japanese fashion, and sings in a low
voice to a Japanese melody .)
Saida —
Kawairrashi-sa ya !
Hotaru no mushi wa
Shinobu nawate ni
Hi wo tomosu.
(At the end of the song, she remains
staring ahead as if at something beautiful . )
Haveneth (in a low voice) — What
did you see?
Saida (speaking slowly and with
pauses) — I saw first myself as in any
mirror, then the mist. Then my face
again, but changed . . . yet I knew it
was my face.
Haveneth — Y es . . .
Saida — S omeone was with me . . .
Haveneth — Y ou walked under the
cherry blossoms with a man whose face
was like
Saida (interrupting breathlessly) — He
was no one I had ever seen before.
Haveneth — W e saw the same thing.
(He drops upon the Chinese seat by the
fire.) That Japanese song ... It was
familiar.
Saida— I have forgotten it.
Haveneth — I will tell you the words :
“As I steal along the rice fields to meet
my lover, the firefly kindles a light to
show me the way.”
Saida (putting her hands over her
eyes) — Yes . . . now I think I remem-
ber . . . No, it is gone.
Haveneth — L ook again.
(Still on her knees, Saida raises her-
self to look in the mirror.)
Saida (in a far-away voice ) — I see a
woman . . .
Haveneth (staring into the fire) —
The same woman . . .
Saida — A nd a man . . .
Haveneth — T he same man . . .
Saida — T hey are the same . . . yet
different. It is the desert . . . It is still
and wide . . . There are a great many
stars . .
(A faint strain of primitive dance mu-
sic- — strings, oboe and a percussion in-
strument — is heard as if it were a great
way off. The sound gradually increases
without ever becoming loud enough to
lose the impression of dream music.)
Haveneth — M usic . . . There is mu-
sic in the tent. (He slowly raises his
eyes from the fire and looks into space.)
I see a dancing girl . . . (Speaking in a
low voice, as if addressing the girl) :
Dance . . . dance . . .
(Saida, at the sound of his voice,
slowly turns a fixed gaze from the mirror
to him. She cowers, her eyes upon his
face. )
Saida (with a gesture of surrender.
In a low voice ) — I am thy slave . . .
(As she speaks, Haveneth’ s eyes slowly
travel to her face. As his eyes meet hers
his expression changes to one of savage
mastery. )
Haveneth — A ye, thou art my slave
and do my will . . . Dance !
(At his command she slowly rises,
slowly raises her arms and clasps them
behind her head. . Her body begins to
sway in accord with the rhythm of the
music. She passes by degrees into a
slow Oriental dance; toward the end it
becomes a pantomime of invitation. As
she dances he rises as if overcome by her
spell and pursues her. Dancing, she
eludes him. As he at last overtakes and
seizes her, she cowers in his arms and
speaks in a soft, pleading voice.)
Saida — D ost thou love me, then, my
master ? Only keep me near thee. I am
thy slave. I do thy will. (He draws her
toward him, then repulses her harshly,
with a laugh.) I love thee at my will.
Saida (crouching)— Pity me, for I
love thee, my master . . . Only give me
thy hand
Haveneth — Y ea, thou shalt feel my
hand. (Raises it to strike her, but in-
stead comes in contact with the cold
metal of the candlestick, which breaks
his dream consciousness and gradually
recalls him. He stares dazedly about the
room. Saida, in evading his blow, has
hidden her face. . As his consciousness
changes she also awakens.)
Haveneth (dully ) — What has hap-
pened ?
Saida (dazedly ) — Such a strange
dream. (Staring at him.) You were
(Continued on page 70)
Page Sixty-Eight
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Page Sixty-Nine
SWADOWLAND
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The Mirror
( Continued from page 68)
cruel; I was afraid of you. (She rises,
drawing away from him as she speaks ) :
I was in your power . . . ( With rising
excitement, recoiling still further from
him.) You drew my heart out of my
body after you . . .You hurt me . . .
hurt me — my body and my soul . . . yet
you were my life. ( Closes her eyes, re-
covers herself and speaks in a quieter
voice . ) What a strange dream ! Dont
let it come back . . . ( Haveneth moves
toward her like one in a trance. As he
does so she moves back until she is
against the wall. Instinctly she puts her
hands behind her. With a remnant of
fear) : Dont touch me. (Her hands ac-
cidentally touch the Egyptian beads. She
draws them oiit like one in a dream and
stares down at them.)
Haveneth (in an ebbing tone of
authority as he watches her.) You shall
do my will. (He tries to raise his hand
with a gesture of authority, but as he
gazes at her his arm drops to his side.
She sets the beads upon her head, and as
she docs so instinctively turns to the
mirror. )
Saida (after a moment, her eyes upon
the mirror ) — What a wide river . . .
What a strange boat . . . Who is that
woman who looks into my eyes ... A
slave is fanning her with a green and
golden fan ; her eyes look into mine . . .
(She stretches out her hands and touches
the mirror. Her expression changes to a
vague recognition.) Ah, the mirror . . .
I see . . . myself! (Her eyes travel to
Haveneth, who stands as if turned to
stone, staring at her with lowered head.
Her pose changes to one suggesting the
fierce authority of a primitive queen.)
Haveneth (in a low voice ) — Saida
. . . Saida . . .
Saida— W ho are you that enters the
queen’s presence unasked!
Haveneth (in a low voice ) — One
who asks only to be the dust beneath
your feet. One whose blood is yours to
shed
Saida (with a smile ) — Then shall it be
shed without delay . . .
Haveneth (in a tone of passion) —
How beautiful you are . . . But you are
terrible. Oh, my love is choking me . . .
I cannot bear it any more . . . (In a
tone of anguish) : Let me go . . .
Saida (with a cruel smile ) — You shall
go.
Haveneth — N ay, I cannot. Where
can I escape your spell? The world is
full of you. In the dark your eyes
pierce my soul and thru the night I am
tortured with the vision of your mouth.
Saida (scornfully )—- 1 am tired of this
sick raving. (With mock sweetness.)
Would you escape your pain? Then
you may shed your blood as you have
wished, drop by drop, until you die . . .
(She turns and raises her hand as tho
she commanded a slave to bear him off.
He kneels and grasps her gown.)
Haveneth — O nly let me die at these
feet, die by your hand, die with mine
eyes upon your face.
Saida (in a tone of outraged sover-
eignty) — Touch not the queen’s garments
with your hand. Now to slow death I
shall add slow torture . . .
Haveneth (springing to his feet) —
Then if I must die, for one moment I
shall live! (He seizes her in his arms
and kisses her. She escapes and draws
back with upraised arm to fling him off.
As they stand so facing each other, her
arms drop to her side and she remains
staring at him, as the dream conscious-
ness, broken by his kiss, slowly ebbs.)
Haveneth (in a lozv, rapt voice, star-
ing at her in a moment of vision) — Yes,
it is you. Again . . . you . . . the soul
within my soul. Mine from the begin-
ning, down the centuries. MineinTotomi
in cherrytime, mine in the desert, my
dancing girl. Mine in Egypt, a princess.
Thru the centuries. I am yours and you
are mine. Come — we will read the
future . . . (He takes her hand and
draws her again tozvard the mirror. She
obeys like one in a dream. But when she
finds herself before the mirror she closes
her eyes and strikes it to the floor.)
Saida — No, not that. I will not look.
(She drops softly to the floor, tempo-
rarily losing consciousness. Haveneth
goes up to her. As he does so she comes
to, and, raising herself upon her elbozv,
addresses him in a tone of surprise.)
Who are you?
Haveneth — Have you forgotten?
Saida— I think I have seen you some-
where. I remember now. You came
here by mistake and we were talking.
Haveneth — It was not a mistake. It
was all part of the design.
Saida ( wondering ) — The design? You
came here to see my father— I remember
now. You have traveled a great deal.
We were talking of the East.
Haveneth — The cherrytime at To-
tomi
Saida- — There was some music . . .
But I have lost it.
Haveneth — And the path under the
cherry blossoms to the temple, the temple
with the great bronze bell?
Saida- — It was something you told
me . . .
Haveneth — And the desert, the music
and the dancing girl !
Saida — T hey are like fragments of a
dream.
Haveneth — And the barge on the
Nile, and the slave fanning you with a
green and gold fan?
Saida — The slave fanning me . . .
What are you talking about ? What has
happened to me? Did I faint? (She
sits up, composing her dress and hair,
rises, goes to the seat under the Buddha.)
Haveneth- — And who am I ? Do you
remember ? Am I a stranger who will
go away, whom you will never see again ?
(Continued on page 80 )
Page Seventy
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Page Seventy-One
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The New Art of Cam-
era Painting
( Continued from page 15)
At the first glance the pictures that
cover one wall of the studio suggest the
old masters. Surely that portrait yon-
der, with the heavy blacks and strong-
high lights, is a Rembrandt; that deli-
cate figure beside it with the frail, curv-
ing hands, the ascetic face and the
strange glow of unseen light is a del
Sarto ; that robust head beyond, a char-
coal sketch of the old Dutch school.
Yet they are all photographs. More-
over, they owe none of their pictorial ef-
fect to artful retouching. They are the
pictures of modern, every-day folk, many
of them the artist’s neighbors of the Vil-
lage, taken with the same type of camera
which in the ordinary photographer’s
hands turns out the set, self-conscious
pictures we present to our relatives and
friends.
But Nicholas Muray is more than an
expert mechanician of the camera. He
is an artist. He sees people in the terms
of pictorial compositions. He knows the
inestimable value of shadows and uses
them to produce miracles of flesh model-
ling. He possesses, moreover, a pecu-
liarly keen power to analyze personalities
and to transfer to paper, not only the
features, but the very self of his sitters.
He has brought to his work many
years of preparation and a training
which many an artist in oils and pig-
ments might envy. In his native Buda-
pest, he studied for four years in the
Industrial Art School. He sketched the
nude models in the life classes, learning
an artist’s reverence and enthusiasm for
the human line. He practiced modelling
in clay. Afterwards came Paris, then
three years in Berlin, where he studied
photography with all the detail and
thoroness that German science implied.
But still he was not satisfied. He did
not want to take pictures as well as any
one had ever taken them — he wanted to
take them better. He had a vision of
photographs that should show, not a
single individual, but humanity itself in
all its human worth and dignity; that
should be pictures as much as an inter-
pretative portrait painted by the brush
of a Whistler or a Sargent.
To work intelligently, the workman
must know his material, and so Muray
attended physiognomy classes and studied
the relation of the physical appearance
of the face to the character, the meaning
of the lines, the tensities and laxities of
facial muscles which make up the ex-
pression. He went further. That he
might know the workings of the muscles,
he attended clinics at a Berlin hospital,
watched operations, visited morgues and
became an anatomist, learning with the
scalpel and dissecting knife valuable les-
sons which he was to put to use after-
ward in his photographic experiments.
Heroic preparation, surely, for a work
which, it is safe to say, most people think
requires only a camera, a superficial
knowledge of focus and chemistry — and
a studio !
( Continued on page 74)
Pa.qc Seventy-Two
SiuA.DOWLA.ND
My Lady Fashion
( Continued from page 53)
lars fashioned from Valenciennes — or
perhaps Irish crochet. Others evidence
the distinguishing touch of exquisite hand
embroidery. The quaintly frilled models
are in high favor. Very demure are
those made with fluted ruffles edged with
fine lace, which are worn in bertha-like
effect, the two ends meeting above the
waistline. The elbow sleeves are usually
finished with ruffles of the same type.
There are also many good-looking waists
of organdie, trimmed with ruffles, which
are finely knife-pleated but unadorned
with a lace edge. Frills of white net are
much in evidence on blouses of sheer cot-
ton and silk.
The new feature in tuck-in blouses lies
in the collar, the accepted fashion in
these being the very large Tuxedo shape,
narrow where it fits the neck, but spring-
ing out sharply from the shoulders to a
width of five or six inches and continuing
wide to the waistline, so that it practi-
cally forms a vest for the coat with open
front.
Blouses to wear with separate skirts
are still made to slip over the head and
have short kimono sleeves. Pleated
ruffles around the bottom are added this
year.
Fabrics for Summer Wear
The fabrics for summer wear are as
varied as they are lovely. For morning
and hot weather utility wear there is a
splendid line of ginghams. The famous
Scotch ginghams are the leaders in this
special fabric and among those of do-
mestic manufacture one may secure at a
moderate price, (for these days), a wide
range of effective plaids, dainty checks
and stripes in a very likable range of
color combinations. In the thinner cot-
tons there are any number of dainty
sprigged and striped dimities, plain and
embroidered batistes and handkerchief
linens, some as fine as a cobweb.
'fitiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiiiiiiiHiiiiiiimmmiimmmmiiiiiiiiiiiiiimii)
Amateur Photography
Contest
Shadowland announces a
monthly prize contest open to all
amateur photographers. Each
month a first prize of $10, a second
prize of $5 and a third prize of $3
will be awarded. The winning
pictures will be reproduced in
Shadowland
A jury of photographic experts
will pass upon all pictures submit-
ted. All pictures entered in this
contest should be addressed to
Amateur Photography Contest,
Shadowland, 177 Duffielcl Street,
Brooklyn, N. Y. If you desire the
return of your pictures, attach the
necessary amount of postage with a
clip.
Mary Pickford and Mr.
Reid Head Contest
The popularity contest with the two-
fold interest rushes on. If you have not
already sent in votes for your favorite
player, you have two more months in
which to do so. Join the ranks of the
photoplay students who are showing
themselves cognizant of who is who in
movieland.
Here are the last-minute results at the
time of going to press :
Mary Pickford, 35,350; Norma Tal-
madge, 18,952; Pearl White,. 14,250;
Mme. Nazimova, 8,950; Constance Tal-
madge, 6,100 ; Bebe Daniels, 4,189 ; Viola
Dana, 3,350; Lillian Gish, 2,250; Elsie
Ferguson, 2,050; Mary Miles Minter,
1,822; Shirley Mason, 1,524; Theda
Bara, 1,524; Ethel Clayton, 1,362; Doro-
thy Gish, 1,352; Anita Stewart, 1,352;
Ruth Roland, 1,250; Olive Thomas,
1,250; Gloria Swanson, 1,100; Mar-
guerite Clark, 1,009; Baby Marie Os-
borne, 1,006; Dorothy Dalton, 1,006;
May Allison, 950; Marion Davies, 856;
Irene Castle, 800 ; Geraldine Farrar, 752 ;
Clara K. Young, 752; Pauline Frederick,
704; Alice Lake, 650; May Murray, 552 ;
Margarita Fisher, 552 ; Mme. Petrova,
552 ; Marie Prevost, 552 ; Edith Johnson,
502; Alice Joyce, 504; Alice Brady, 450;
June Caprice, 450; Vivian Martin, 450;
Katherine MacDonald, 400; Priscilla
Dean, 402 ; Marie Walcamp, 402 ; Do-
lores Cassinelli, 350; Juanita Hansen,
350; Ann Little, 350; Madge Kennedy,
300; Wanda Hawley, 300; Betty Comp-
son, 300 ; Billie Burke, 254 ; Doris Ken-
yon, 254; Jane Novak, 254; Doris May,
152; Jean Paige, 202; Lila Lee, 152;
Gladys Leslie, 152; Mae Marsh, 152;
Dorothy Phillips, 152 ; Fanny Ward, 152.
Wallace Reid, 12,050; William S.
Hart, 11,452; Richard Barthelmess,
9,802 ; Douglas Fairbanks, 8,102 ; Eugene
O’Brien, 4,250; William Farnum, 2,600;
Charles Ray, 2,452 ; J. Warren Kerri-
gan, 2,100; Tom Mix, 1,950; Douglas
MacLean, 1,652; Charles Chaplin, 1,450;
Tom Moore, 1,150; Rodney La Rocque,
1,100; John Barrymore, 952; Antonio
Moreno, 952 ; William Russell, 904 ;
Jack Pickford, 850; Ralph Graves, 850;
Thomas Meighan, 801 ; William Duncan,
748 ; Earle Williams, 748 ; Kenneth Har-
lan, 705 ; Bert Lytell, 705 ; Harry North-
rup, 705 ; George Walsh, 705 ; Bobby
Harron, 649 ; Lloyd Hughes, 649 ; Harri-
son Ford, 598; Marshall Neilan, 551;
Eddie Lyons, 500 ; Louis Stone, 500 ;
Louis Bennison, 453 ; Eddie Polo, 453 ;
Henry G. Sell, 453 ; Elliott Dexter, 402 ;
Tom Forman, 350; Bryant Washburn,
350 ; Lon Chaney, 309 ; Robert Gordon,
309; Cullen Landis, 309; Francis Mac-
Donald, 309 ; King Vidor, 309 ; Webster
Campbell, 248 ; Harold Lloyd, 248 ;
Emery Johnson, 248; Milton Sills, 248;
Owen Moore, 248 ; Monte Blue, 202 ;
Lew Cody, 202 ; Wesley Barry, 202 ; Will
Rogers, 202 ; Monroe Salisbury, 202 ;
Robert Warwick, 202 ; Raymond Hatton,
151 ; Theodore Roberts, 151 ; Charles
Meredith, 151 ; Lee Moran, 151.
When you find yourself before a
news-stand, gazing up at the highly
colored covers of the innumerable
magazines, what impressions do
you receive?
What mental requirements form
your purchase?
In other words, what is it that
you demand in a magazine?
Is it literature which must be un-
usual ?
Is it artistic achievement in illus-
tration ?
Is it a pithy portrayal of current
topics ?
In short, is it a magazine dif-
ferent ?
In answer to this, we invite your
attention to the August issue of
The Motion Picture Classic.
The newest star to be added to
the Selznick constellation, Louise
Huff, has been interviewed with the
most piquant result, by Frederick
James Smith.
Much has been said of the fickle-
ness of the public — Bryant Wash-
burn, that idol of the pioneer days
of the cinema, is still idol-ling, and,
according to our interviewer, Maude
S. Cheatham, he possesses all the
fascination, and more, of his early
days.
Chet Withey, the man behind
“Romance,” has been caught in an
off moment and reveals to us the
delightfully human side of a di-
rector.
The dark secret in the life of
Mary Miles Minter, (she wrote
with glorious abandon at the age of
eight), has been told by B. F. Wil-
son. There are reproductions of
these literary outbursts which will
interest you.
And, altho we call your attention
to the fact each month, yet there
are certain truths which cannot be-
come too evident, such as the nov-
elizations, the portraits, the studio
studies of the best beloved stars
and the intimate chatter by “one
who knows.”
^ he =
Motion Picture Classic
175 Duffielcl St. Brooklyn, N. Y.
Page Seventy-Three
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and Music
A delightful combination which brings many happy
hours,— hearts filled with pleasant
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It is ever so with music, — the medium
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Instruments
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Gibson Players.
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If your dealer is unable to supply
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The New Art of Cam-
era Painting
( Continued from page 72)
Mr. Muray is still young enough so
that it may be said he is just beginning,
but already his work has attracted un-
usual notice. His use of shadow and
light effects, in particular, is nothing
short of revolutionary. The flesh in his
pictures is quick , breathing, pulsating,
not the blank, dead white stuff of the
ordinary photograph. It is as tho his
camera saw things that others do not,
muscle masses, exquisitely and perfectly
denoted by subtle shading, sensitive nerve
filaments, all those tiny, inexplicable dif-
ferentiations of line and texture that
make a person’s face the interpreter of
his thoughts.
He makes no secret of his means for
getting his effects. And they are sur-
prisingly simple. In the steeply slanted
roof of the studio is a skylight, divided
into sections with curtains that may be
pulled across each. By manipulating
these curtains he is able to exclude all
light which is not necessary to converge
the high lights where he wishes. Instead
of the painful white glare of ordinary
photographic studios that gives the face
and figure an unmodulated, hard dis-
tinctness, he uses the same delicate shad-
ings, sharp shadows and play of light
and shade that the artist employs. His
pictures have perspective, balance of
lights and darks — and, above all, imagi-
nation.
“A photographer must see his picture
before he takes it,” he says. “He must
know what the camera will register as
well before he presses the bulb as when
the plate is developed. Not every expres-
sion, every pose is a picture ; one must
wait for the right one and know it when
it comes.”
There is none of the usual photo-
graphic routine in Muray’s studio. He
will not take a picture in a hurry. He
must get acquainted with his sitter first.
A picture — the right picture — is worth
all the time it needs. He places his sub-
ject in a chair before the proper back-
ground, focuses the camera and seems to
forget that there is a picture to be taken.
I say seems, but Muray’s interest in the
people he photographs is not a business
matter, an affectation. One senses in-
stantly that here is a man who is sym-
pathetic, who understands, and the de-
fensive armor of self-consciousness slips
off unaware.
He talks with his sitters, this rather
poetic-looking, intensely vital young
artist, with his acid-stained workman’s
smock, flashing smile and friendly eyes.
He studies the faces, the expressions and
the personality revealed by them. The
conversation is turned deftly to the par-
ticular interests of the sitter: Batik em-
broideries, perhaps, or it may be a new
Packard car, and all the time he is wait-
ing for the picture, the sudden turn of
the head, lighting up of the eyes, tensing
( Continued on page 81)
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t
End Gray Hair
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The August
Motion Picture Magazine
All good things come to those who wait
And if you have waited for the August number
of the Motion Picture Magazine, you will be
rewarded by the prodigal abundance of good
things it has to offer you.
There’s the delightful story of the tete-a-tete which
Adele Whitely Fletcher had with Alice Brady in
her dressing-room at the theater.
Doris Keane, that charming figure of dramatic art
who has so successfully proven the desirability of
"Romance” to two prosaic countries, England and
America, has been captured by Gladys Hall for
an interview of unusual interest.
Our readers will be interested to a man, — (or to a
woman) in the double-page display showing
pictures of Mary Pickford in her home.
There’s an interesting story on the relationship of
music to the cinema; an interview with Grace
Davison by Lillian Montanye; the novelizations of
the best photoplays of the month; the most beauti-
ful portraits of the players, and so forth, and so
forth. We haven’t any more space in which to tell
you — you will have to get this number for your
own conviction.
The Motion Picture Magazine
175 DUFFIELD ST., BROOKLYN, N. Y.
Page Seventy-Four
Swa.dowla.no
Wanted This Year
A grave dearth of story plots nou) confronts the motion picture industry.
Producers will pay you well for any suitable story -ideas. Literary ability
not a prime factor. Learn how you can write for the screen.
5000 New Story-Ideas for Motion Pictures
The above figure does not include material needed for religious, commercial and educational films.
S OMEWHERE in America this year, scores of
new motion picture writers will be developed.
(For the motion picture industry must have a
continuous supply of good, new story-ideas if it is
to survive.)
Most of these new photoplaywrights will be men
and women who never wrote a line for publication.
They will be people with merely good ideas for
stories, who are willing, during spare hours, to learn
how picture directors want their plots laid out. Pro-
ducers will pay them $100 to $500 each for clever
comedies, and $250 to $2,000 each for five-reel dramatic
scripts. They will pay these prices because they must
have stories. 95% of book material is unsuited to their
need, and as yet not enough people are writing for
the screen to supply the demand.
The above is a statement of fact concerning the
motion picture industry. If you have a story-idea as
good as some you have seen produced, this oppor-
tunity is wide open to you.
There is plenty of proof that producers really do pay
the prices stated above. For they are paying these
prices constantly to people we have taught to write for the
screen — people who never saw a motion picture studio.
In Two Short Years
It was a little over two years ago when the famine in
story plots first became acute. Public taste changed.
Play-goers began to demand real stories. Plenty of man-
uscripts were being submitted, but most were unsuitable.
For writers did not know how to adapt their .stories for
the screen. Few could come to Los Angeles to learn.
A plan for home study had to be devised.
Frederick Palmer (formerly staff writer of Keystone,
Fox, Triangle and Universal), finally assembled a corps
of experts who built a plan of study which new writers
could master through correspondence.
The Palmer Course and service has now been indorsed
in writing by practically every big star and producer.
Back of the Palmer Plan, directing this work in devel-
oping new writers, is an advisory council composed of the
biggest figures in the industry. It includes Cecil B. De-
Mille, Director-General of Famous Players-Lasky Cor-
poration; Thomas H. Ince, head of the Thomas H. Ince
Studios; Lois Weber, America’s greatest woman pro-
ducer and director; Rob Wagner, well known motion
picture writer for the Saturday Evening Post.
In two short years we have developed dozens of new
writers. We are proud of the records they have made,
and we prefer to let them speak for us.
A Co-operative Plan — Not a Tedious Course
Our business is to take people who have ideas for
stories and teach them tc construct them in a way that
meets a motion picture producer’s requirements. We
furnish you the Palmer Handbook with cross references
to three stories already successfully produced. The sce-
narios come to you exactly as used by the directors. Also
a glossary of studio terms and phrases, such as “Iris,”
“Lap Dissolve,” etc. In short, we bring the studio to you.
Our Advisory Service Bureau gives you personal, con-
structive criticisms of your manuscripts — free and un-
limited for one year. Criticisms come only from men
experienced in studio staff writing.
Special Contributors
Twelve leading factors in the motion picture industry
have contributed special printed lectures covering every
phase of photoplay plot construction. Among others,
these special contributors include : Frank Lloyd and Clar-
Advisory
Council
Cecil B. DeMille
Director-Gen. Famous
Players-Lasky Corp.
Thomas H. Ince
of the Studio that
bears his name
Lois Weber
America's greatest wo-
man producer and di-
rector
Rob Wagner
motion picture writer
Saturday Evening Post
ence Badger, Goldwyn directors; Jeanie MacPherson,
noted Lasky scenario writer; Col. Jasper Ewing Brady,
of Metro’s scenario staff; Denison Clift, Fox scenario
editor; George Beban, celebrated actor and producer;
A1 E. Christie, president Christie Film Co.; Hugh
McClung, expert cinematographer, etc., etc.
Our Marketing Bureau is headed by Mrs. Kate Corbaley, formerly
photoplaywright for Mr. and Mrs, Sidney Drew. In constant touch
with the studios, she knows their needs, so that when our members
so desire, we submit their stories in person for them. Thus we not
only train you to write; we help you to sell your story-ideas.
$3,000 for One Story Plot
Our members come from all walks of life; mothers with children
to support, school teachers, clerks, newspaper men, ministers, busi-
ness men, successful fiction writers. In short, we have proven that
anyone with an average imagination and story-ideas can write
successful photoplays once he is trained.
One student, G. Leroi Clarke, formerly a minister, sold his first
photoplay story for $3,000. The recent success of Douglas Fair-
banks, “His Majesty the American,” and the play, “Live Sparks,”
in which J. Warren Kerrigan lately starred, were both written by
Palmer students. Many students now hold staff positions, four in
one studio alone.
We have prepared a book, “The Secret of Successful Photoplay
Writing,” which will inform you of the Palmer Course and service
in greater detail. If you desire to consider the unusual opportunity
in this new field of art seriously — this book will be mailed to
you free.
At Least Investigate
For there is one peculiar thing to consider in the Palmer Plan.
One single successful effort immediately repays you for your work.
Not all our members begin to sell photoplays at once — naturally.
But most of them do begin to show returns within a few months.
And the big majority are not literary folks. They are people who
have simply made up their minds to make money out of story-ideas
they have in the back of their heads — and incidentally, perhaps, to
gain some reputation.
The way is open. Producers are making every effort to encourage
new writers. The demand is growing greater every day, and the
opportunity is rich in its rewards because it is young. If seriously
interested, mail the coupon.
Palmer Photoplay Corporation
Department cf Education
715 I. W. Heilman Bldg., Los Angeles, Cal.
Palmer Photoplay Corporation, Department of Education,
715 I. W. Heilman Building, Los Angeles, California.
Please send me, without obligation, your new book. “The Secret of Successful
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Who Killed Cock Robin?
( Continued from page 45)
the melodramas of the red-ink brand
have arrived at the conclusion that young
Robin deserved his death. Such a thoro
scoundrel was he, so devoid of honor
and principle, especially toward women.
He was a genuine menace to society and
a particularly sinister menace, because
his villainy was usually suave and well-
concealed. Moreover, his youthful self-
confidence was intolerable. Under the
last circumstance not even a feminine
jury would become sentimental over his
removal.
A glance at the theatrical chart of this
season discloses almost a dozen “Who
Killed Cock Robin?” plays. A happy
variety is seen in the mechanical details
with which they have been worked out.
Some have had the audience guessing
thru their entire action as to the identity
of the murderer, while others have let
the spectators in on the secret before the
first act curtain. And there are murder
plays in which there is no mystery. In
such a class belongs “The Jest,” or “The
Battle of the Barrymores,” as it is some-
times called. In this gory drama, which
Arthur Hopkins introduced to a palpi-
tating public last spring, practically every
crime in the De Medici calendar was
committed. It was an undisguised revel
of cruelty, subtle tho not always refined.
There are other plays which, tho not
dealing with murder, always seem on the
point of it. In the latter class is “The
Purple Mask,” which brought Leo Dit-
richstein back to New York with the
New Year. Leo as a daring desperado
of the royalist faction in the Napoleonic
era of France and Brandon Tynan as a
detective attached to the republican
forces have a merry chase thruout five
acts of stirring cloak-and-dagger melo-
drama. Bloody crime seems always just
around the corner, but Leo and Brandon
avert it by making the narrowest of
escapes.
The real, unadulterated gory trail of
the present season was first scented in
the latter part of July, when “At 9.45,”
a product of the Owen Davis factory,
was presented in William A. Brady’s
showrooms in Forty-eighth Street. In
this melodrama the author evolved a
story in which every character was sus-
pected of murder. It packed the theater
for months and not even the actors’
strike could dim its appeal. Next June’s
summaries of the season may call its pro-
duction significant for this very reason
and for the additional reason that it gave
Mr. Brady an opportunity to be an actor
for the first time in several years.
George Broadhurst next took up the
trail with “The Crimson Alibi,” a thrill-
ing murder mystery which also at va-
rious times implicated practically all the
members of the cast. Cock Robin in this
case was an exception to the rule. He
was an old man — oh, very, very old, but
ever so lecherous. He got what he de-
served by the means of a dagger, and all
that the audience saw of the assassin was
the hand that held the dagger. The un-
raveling of the mystery proved as adroit
as it was exciting.
A. H. Woods was not long in getting
started. He presented “The Voice in the
Dark,” by an unknown playwright
named Ralph Dyar, at the Republic, and,
like its predecessors, it aroused marked
public interest. It introduced two novel
characters in a deaf woman and a blind
man who were witnesses at a murder
trial, the first testifying as to what she
had seen, the latter telling what he had
heard. Mr. AVoods did not stop with
this production. He presented Marjorie
Rambeau in “The Unknown Woman,”
in which a suicide took place, but which
was made to seem a murder thru the
ingenuity of the villain. “The Sign on
the Door,” the latest Woods offering,
discloses the murder of Lowell Sherman,
a very audacious and self-assertive Cock
Robin, at 10 p. m. promptly at evening
performances and 4 p. m. sharp at mati-
nees.
Cohan and Harris can always be relied
upon for a good, rousing melodrama in
which no crime less than murder is com-
mitted. They are represented at present
with an unusually skilful example by
Rita Wieman, called “The Acquittal,” in
which a newspaper man proves himself a
capital detective. John D. Williams of-
fered “For the Defense,” by Elmer E.
Rice, who, under the longer name of
Reizenstein, contributed “On Trial” some
seasons back. This play made use of
the familiar flash-back, borrowed from
the movies, which Reizenstein introduced
in “On Trial.” It won steady patronage
by means of its effective scenes, which
showed a district attorney under the
strain of choosing between love and duty.
Then there is “Smilin’ Through,” by
Allan Langdon Martin, in which the ac-
cidental murder of Jane Cowl takes
place. But Miss Cowl cannot be re-
pressed. She comes back as a gorgeous
ghost with a watchful eye upon the love
affairs of her niece. And who is the
niece? Why, Jane Cowl.
“Abraham Lincoln” shows the assassi-
nation of the President in Ford’s Thea-
ter, Washington. “John Ferguson” had
a tensely discussed Irish murder in it.
Gorki’s “Night Lodging” contained all
kinds of criminals at that hotbed of
criminology, the Plymouth Theater.
Murder is avoided by the narrowest of
margins in “The Storm,” Langdon Mc-
Cormick’s scenic melodrama, at the
Forty-eighth Street Theater.
And now we find playwrights extend-
ing, as it were, the gory trail into the
spirit world. They are putting their
audiences thru the third degree of Sir
Oliver Lodge, to borrow an apt phrase,
and the audiences seem to enjoy the ex-
perience. The revival in the belief of
supposed spirit manifestations which the
( Continued on page 80)
Page Seventy-Six
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Lashlux is a delicately-scented cream, containing ingredients
which make the lashes grow long and thick. Used after
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drying effect which powder has on the eyebrows and lashes.
Lashlux, in Brown or Dark, gives the immediate appearance
of heavy lashes. For use at night, Lashlux is made in a color-
less form, to be massaged into the lids before retiring.
Memorize the name. Accept
no substitutes. In a dainty
brown box, 50c, at the best
drug stores and toilet goods
counters, or direct from the
makers.
Page Seventy-Seven ,
Sw AD OWL AND
Second Prize
Fourth Prize
Third
Prize
Ninth Prize
'HE new Popu-
larity Contest,
unusual and en-
tertaining, is already
the object of great
interest — unfailing
and rife. If you
have entered it or
have read the announcements
which have appeared, and will ap-
pear, from time to time, containing
the rules and regulations, you
know it is actually a double con-
test — a contest in which both the
Popularity Contest
Awards
Sixth Prize
FIRST PRIZE
Crescent Phonograph, piano mahogany finish
(value $160). Plays all makes of disc records:
Victor, Columbia, Pathe, Edison, Emerson, etc.,
without the use of extra attachments or intricate
adjustments ; a simple turn of the sound-box is
all that is necessary in changing from a lateral
cut record to playing a hill and dale cut record.
A Crescent owner can enjoy a repertoire of
the greatest opera singers, popular songs, dance
music or anything that is turned out of the
disc record. The tone of the Crescent is full,
round, deep and mellow. It has a large com-
partment for records.
SECOND PRIZE
Movette Camera and
three packages of films
(value $65). Compact,
light, efficient, easily op-
erated. Think of the
possibilities during your
vacation trip ■ — your
canoe trip — in pictures
— pictures of your family or friends— living pic-
tures that you can project at any time in your
home. A priceless record of your life.
THIRD PRIZE
Corona Typewriter with case, (value $50) ; an
all-round portable typewriter, light enough and
small enough to be carried anywhere, and strong
enough to stand any possible condition of travel.
It is trim and symmetrical and does not give
one’s study the atmosphere of a business office.
Fold it up and take it with you anywhere.
FOURTH PRIZE
Sheaffer “Giftie” Combination Set, consisting
of a Sheaffer Fountain Pen and a Sheaffer
Sharp-Point Pencil, in a handsome plush-lined
box. Gold filled, warranted twenty years. Can-
not blot or leak. A beautiful and perfect writ-
ing instrument.
FIFTH PRIZE
Bristol steel Casting Rod agate guide, cork
grip, strong and durable. Packed in linen case.
Can be easily put in traveling bag.
SIXTH PRIZE
Loughlin Safety Self-Filling Fountain Pen.
No extensions to remember, no locks to forget.
SEVENTH PRIZE
Star Vibrator, handsomely finished in nickel
plate with three attachments. Alternating cur-
rent. Excellent for massage. Use it in your
own home.
EIGHTH PRIZE
Same as Seventh Prize.
NINTH PRIZE
Marble nickel-plated pocket axe of tool steel,
carefully tempered and sharpened. Indispens-
able in camp or woods.
public and players are equally in-
terested.
The prizes depicted above and
below were selected after much
careful thought and attention and
each one is destined to make some
one happier, from the beautiful
Crescent phonograph which sug-
gests a twilight hour with the
gems musical genii have given to
the world, to the Marble nickel- First
plated axe which brings to mind
a jolty time in some invitingly
green woodland.
Perhaps you have not yet de-
cided to enter the contest — if not
do so now. Dont lose an oppor-
tunity of enjoying the unique en-
tertainment it affords or of captur-
ing one of the lovely and useful
awards.
Prize
Page Seventy-Eight
SWADOWLAND
Greatest of All Popularity Contests
Unique Competition in Which the Voters Share in the Prizes
WHO IS THE ONE GREAT STAR OF THE SCREEN?
Is it CHARLIE CHAPLIN or ELSIE FERGUSON?
Is it RICHARD BARTHELMESS or WILLIAM S. HART?
Concerning this matter there is great difference of opinion. Every fan, in fact, has his own idol. The Wall
Street broker swears by MARY PICKFORD ; his wife thinks TOM MIX is the best actor the cinema has
produced; the office boy has a “crush” on THEDA BARA and the stenographer collects photographs of
DOUGLAS FAIRBANKS.
What do you think? If you had a vote would you give it to NAZIMOVA or to LILLIAN GISH? Would
you vote for a man or a woman or for little BEN ALEXANDER?
SHADOWLAND, MOTION PICTURE MAGAZINE, and MOTION PICTURE CLASSIC— the three
great magazines of the motion picture world — have decided to refer this question to their readers by taking
a popular, world-wide vote. In regard to matters concerning the stage and theater their audience is the most
intelligent and discerning; the most wide-awake and well-informed in the world today. If any picture
patrons can pick out the leading star, it will be those who read SHADOWLAND, the MAGAZINE and
CLASSIC.
The coupons will show you how to enter your own name and the name of your favorite player. But you
may vote on an ordinary sheet of paper in Class Number 2 provided you make the ballot the same size
and follow the wording of this coupon. We prefer the printed coupons for uniformity and convenience in
counting.
There will be prizes for voters and prizes for stars.
Votes registered in Class Number 1 will probably be cast by favor. Votes registered in Class Number 2
will call for a wide knowledge of the Motion Picture business, keen powers of perception and skill at de-
tecting the trend of popular favor. You cannot guess the winner offhand.
RULES OF THE CONTEST
1. The contest began on December 1, 1919, and will close on
September 30, 1920.
2 .
There will be ten ballots as follows:
December
January
February
March
April
1919 ballot
1920 ballot
1920 ballot
1920 ballot
1920 ballot
May
June
July
August
September
1920 ballot
1920 ballot
1920 ballot
1920 ballot
1920 ballot
3 . The result of each month’s ballot will be published in each one of
our magazines the second month following such ballot.
4. No votes will be received prior to the opening date or after the
date of closing.
5 . Each person entering the contest and observing the rules thereof
shall have the privilege of voting once in each class, each month,
for each one of our magazines. You may send us one vote in
each class for Shadowland every month, and the same for
Motion Picture Magazine and yet again the same for Classic.
Thus, you will have three votes in Class No. 1 each month, and
three votes in Class No. 2 each month.
Class Number 1
Class Number 2
SHADOWLAND, MAGAZINE and CLASSIC:
175 Duffield Street, Brooklyn, N. Y.
SHADOWLAND, MAGAZINE and CLASSIC:
175 Duffield Street, Brooklyn, N. Y.
I consider
the most popular player in the entire field of Motion
Pictures.
I believe that
will win the Big Three Popularity Contest with
Name
Name
Street
Street
City
State
State
Country
Country
(Dated)
(Dated)
Remember! This is the greatest player contest in history.
Page Seventy-Nine
$WADOWLA.ND
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brings success, that helps make friends, then
here is a 10-day trial cffer it will pay you
to know about.
Many moving picture stars enjoy a daily vacuum
massage with the Clean-O-Pore which science has
acclaimed the only perfect method of massaging.
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A few minutes’ use a day will show
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WANTED — 100 NEW FACES for the Movies
Did it ever occur to you that you might be sitting in the theater,
watching yourself on the silversheet, instead of watching somebody else?
We have a little booklet entitled “WHO CAN AND WHO CAN-
NOT GET INTO THE MOVIES”
and maybe you will find in this just
why you are sitting in the theater
instead of playing on the silversheet.
Cut out the following coupon and
with 5c. in stamps mail to us.
THE NATIONAL MOTION PICTURE INSTITUTE
173-175-177 Duffield Street, Brooklyn, N. Y.
Please send me a copy of your booklet, “Who
Can and Who Cannot Get Into the Pictures and
Why?” Enclosed is 5 cents in stamps for mailing.
Name. . .
Address.
Page Eighty
Who Killed Cock
Robin?
( Continued from page 76)
war has occasioned has found represen-
tation on the stage, providing an uncanny
but for the most part thrilling atmos-
phere to melodramas of the underworld.
In such a category belong Fred Jack-
son’s “The Hole in the Wall” and Crane
Wilbur’s “The Ouija Board,” both of
which are excellent products of an im-
agination that would present a new and
mysterious twist to the crook melo-
dramas.
John Barrymore as Richard III mur-
ders his way to a kingdom and to King-
dom Come at the Plymouth Theater.
No melodramatics of the conventional
sort here. Instead, cruel, subtle intrigues
of a gory era in English history when
decapitating swords and axes flourished.
The bloody conquest of the races — the
French race and also the Barrymore
race — is continued at the Criterion in
“The Letter of the Law,” Brieux’s at-
tack on the courts, in which a cynical and
ambitious magistrate is murdered by the
peasant woman whose life he has ruined
by unjust legal procedures.
So it goes — up and down the Rialto.
One would be justified in saying that it’s
a nice night for a murder — almost any
night in the Broadway theaters.
But is there not a day of sweetness and
light, of “Pollyanna,” approaching?
Most assuredly. For, after all, murder
will out.
•111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111 iiiiiiiiiiiiimmimiiiiiiiii
The Mirror
( Continued from page 70)
{Saida with her eyes upon him, slowly
shakes her head.)
Haveneth {picking up the Egyptian
beads from the floor)— You had put on
your Egyptian beads; do you remember?
{She nods.) And I told you how we
believe in the East that when two souls
have lived thru many lifetimes together,
sometimes moments of recognition come
to them when they can catch glimpses of
their past lives. You have forgotten — it
is slipping from me like a dream. But
the bond remains. You are mine, you
have always been mine. We know that
in our souls.
Saida — We have only just met.
Haveneth {with a slow significance,
taking both of her hands)- — We have
known each other a thousand years.
{The Japanese servant, drawing back
the curtain announces from the door-
way) :
Servant — Judge Blair will see Mr.
Haveneth.
{Haveneth, dropping Saida’s hands,
stands looking down at her as she sits
under the Buddha between the tall,
lighted candles, looking ahead with
dreaming eyes. The Japanese servant
waits in the doorway.)
{Curtain)
Helen MacKellar: Stage Find of 1920
( Continued from page 25)
and thrilling adventure. It makes life
wonderful.”
She told me that the past year has
been, for her, wonderful. She has been
doing “The Storm,” which has been so
eminently successful and, while it was
merely giving special matinees, she was
playing in “Beyond the Horizon” with
Richard Bennett, which satisfied her
artistically.
“That is real happiness,” she told me,
“real satisfaction — to be successful in
the eyes of the world, as ‘The Storm’
was, for instance, and, at the same time,
to be doing the thing which satisfies
yourself, your own need of expres-
sion . . . ‘Beyond the Horizon’ did that
for me. I loved doing it. It was a most
wonderful experience.”
I asked her what she thought “Beyond
the Horizon” was meant to convey by
way of a message. There were so many
things, so many themes it might be said
to suggest.
“A square peg in a round hole,” she
said, “simply that. All of the people in
that play might very well, very easily,
have been happy, harmonious, adequately
successful, each according to his kind.
It proves the tragedies we may become
if we are thrown out of our proper
spheres. We become distorted, out of
character, destroyed. If I were a school
teacher, for example ...” She shud-
dered, delicately . . .
“Do you think,” I asked, “that there
was meant to be any hope signified at
the end of the play?”
“None,” she said, “none whatever. I
spent sleepless nights before the play in
the fear that I might not give to the
character of Mary the tonelessness, the
all-goneness I felt it called for. No,
everything was gone, for all of them,
everything.”
“Do you think,” I asked, “that life is
ever so cruel ?”
There was a narrowing of the very
blue eyes. “Yes,” she said.
I asked her her ambition, profession-
ally. I knew that she would have one.
A visionary with a college training would
have.
The visionary came to the fore.
“It is to play Barrie,” she said; “I do
wish that I could. I have always longed
to. I love his whimsicality, his wistful-
ness, his delicacies. I feel that I could
really give interpretations worthy of
him.”
“Do you think that you shall, even-
tually ?”
Miss MacKellar clasped her hands
about her knee and penetrated the inex-
plicable future with her eyes. She has a
way of doing that. So might she have
sat in her freshman days at college with
some chosen comrade sketching out the
triumphal progress to the pinnacle where
hangs the budding laurel.
“Do you know,” she said, “I have
found out that I get just about what I
want by wanting that thing hard enough,
and then keeping on wanting it and
thinking about it, and then, all at once,
it comes to me. That sounds like ego-
ism, and it’s probably mere luck, but it
has worked out that way thus far.”
Helen MacKellar has the power of
thought and knows how to apply it.
She has the will to do . . . and she
does.
She has youth.
She has a characteristic beauty, not
dependent upon feature but upon the ani-
mating spirit within.
She has individuality.
There is something of the description
Henley gave of R. L. S. applicable to
her: “A deal of Ariel, just a streak of
Puck, much Antony, of Hamlet most of
all, and something of the Shorter Cate-
chist.”
iiiiiiiiiimiiiiiiimmiiiiiiiimimmmmmiiiimiiiiiiiiiimmiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiimiminiiMHiiiinii
The New Art of Cam-
era Painting
( Continued from page 74)
of the muscles, that shall best express
the real soul of the man or woman be-
fore him. No one whose photograph he
takes knows when it is taken.
When some outside circumstance in-
tervenes to prevent a sitter from reveal-
ing his real personality, Muray’s knowl-
edge of facial muscles enables him to
move the face of the picture itself into
the desired expression. For example, one
woman who came for a portrait study
wished to be taken smiling, but a recent
bereavement had saddened her so that
she was totally unable to smile naturally.
Her picture was taken, sober and care-
worn, but when it came from the artist’s
hands the lips were curving, the whole
face lighted up with her old, joyous
smile !
Not all of his work is character por-
traiture. His purely decorative compo-
sitions — studies of the nude and picto-
rial photographs — are strikingly fresh in
their imaginative power. Here the artist
instinct in Muray is given free play.
Whether it is an exuberant naked child
figure with the joyous vigor of a wild
fawn or Washington Arch seen on a
night of rain, his photographs have all
the quality, composition and shadings of
paintings, an illusion which he sometimes
heightens by printing them by a method
of his own invention giving the effect of
a canvas background.
“Most photographers take pictures the
hardest way it can be done,” he says. “I
take them in the simplest way. The
background that obtrudes, the costume
that distracts the attention, the artificial
pose, these I hate. They smother the
personality and the portrait is worthless ;
they ruin the composition and the picture
is a jumble and not art.”
Keats said it in other words : “Beauty
is Truth, Truth, Beauty, this is all ye
know or need to know.” So believes
Nicholas Muray. His photographs are
planned to reveal instead of assume, to
interpret rather than flatter. And they
are art because they show us the beauty
their creator sees in the thing he pictures.
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DO IT TODAY
Tomorrow will always be 24 hours too late
You have been thinking a good deal of late about
the other fellow ‘s luck — and your misfortune. You
read or heair about some good fortune that has
fallen to someone, and you immediately exclaim:
“What luck! If I only had his chance! ”
This man ’s so-called luck consisted of persistency
and study. He used today’s time to get ready for
tomorrow’s work. When he reached the top every-
body called it luck.
This same luck is open to you. The American Col-
lege is ready to help you. Are you ready to be
helped?
Send jor our free OPEN DOOR booklet
175 DUFFIELD STREET BROOKLYN, N. Y.
We Believe in Everybody Who Believes in Himself
Page Eighty-One
SwA.DOWLA.NQ
Page Eighty-Two
THE WILLIAM G. HEWITT fRESl
61-67 NAVY STREET
BROOKLYN, N. Y.
This photograph shows the group of final winners and honor-roll members of last year’s contest.
The Fame and Fortune Contest of 1920
being held by The Motion Picture Magazine, The Motion Picture Classic, and Shadowland, is the biggest
and best opportunity ever offered you to realize your screen ambition.
Think of the opportunity which will be given you this year ! “Love’s Redemption” is the title of the five-
reel feature play that is being produced by us, which will include many of the contestants of the 1920 Fame
and Fortune Contest. Blanche McGarity and Anetha Getwell, winners of last year’s contest, have been
chosen to play leading parts. Dorian Romero has been selected as the “heavy.” Edward Chalmers, Alfred
L. Rigali, Dorothy Taylor, Seymoure Panish, Joseph Murtaugh, Lynne Berry, Arthur W. Tuthill, William
Castro, Hammer Brothers, Clarence Linton, Bunty Manly, Erminie Gagnon, have also been assigned parts.
Among the distinguished men who will probably take part in the play are Edwin Markham, the great poet;
Hudson Maxim, the famous inventor; James J. McCabe, District Superintendent of Public Schools, New
York City, and Judge Frederick E. Crane of the Court of Appeals of New York State. Each issue of every
one of our several publications will hereafter contain interesting news of the progress of the play.
SHADOWLAND ENTRANCE COUPON
Name
Address (street
(city) (state
Previous stage or screen experience in detail, if any
When born Birthplace
Eyes (color) Hair (color)
Complexion
Do you want to take part in the Five-Reel Feature Drama?.
RULES FOR 1920 CONTESTANTS
Contestants shall submit one or more portraits. On the back of each
photo an entrance coupon must be pasted, or a similar coupon of your own
making.
Post-card pictures, tinted photographs and snapshots not accepted.
Photographs will not be returned to the owner.
Contestants should not write letters regarding the contest, as it will be
impossible to answer them. All rules will be printed in all three magazines.
Photos should be mailed to CONTEST MANAGER, 175 Duffield St.,
Brooklyn, N. Y. Send as many as you like.
The contest is open to every one, except those who have already played
prominent screen or stage roles.
Contest closes August 1, 1920, but photos mailed on that day will be
accepted.
